


Playing the Game

by flight_on_broken_wings



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (potential explicit content in future chapters), A lot of things!Bruce, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Bucky Barnes-centric, Crime Team, Deaf Clint Barton, Extraction Specialist!Bucky, Forger!Steve, Grifter!Natasha, Hacker!Tony, Heist AU, Hitter!Thor, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Leverage AU, M/M, Ocean's Eleven shit goin' on up in here, Recovery, frontman!sam, thief!Clint, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-07 09:16:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 99,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13431642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight_on_broken_wings/pseuds/flight_on_broken_wings
Summary: By habit, by rule, they work alone.Occasionally when the job calls for it, and when it’s a very, very good job, they break that rule. They broke it in Dubai, in Amsterdam, in Cape Town, in some other off-the-record places that Interpol and the Feds hadn’t been able to link any of them to yet. And they’re about to break it again, worse than they ever had before.Steve Rogers has an idea, a plan to bring together a group of remarkable people, to see if they could become, and do, something more. Natasha Romanova has some plans of her own. Bucky Barnes doesn’t know how Steve got him involved in this, much less why he’s still here, or what Natasha is up to, and most importantly yet, who the hell the new hot blonde mess of a human being who doesn’t seem to want to be there any more than he does is, but he wants to find out. Clint Barton wants very few things, simply to be left alone being at the top of his list. Or at least, he thinks it is. Maybe.As for the rest of the team, they’re already on board.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I would like to apologize to everyone who's been waiting for me to finish the final chapter to A Place of Our Own and my Clintasha stuff. I am just a shit person and a shit writer who can't stay focused on one thing long enough to finish it I guess. I will get back to it. I will finish it. Hell, I'll probably get bored with Winterhawk after a little bit and switch back to Clintasha before too long and then I'll be back to Winterhawk again and that's just how it goes. 
> 
> Sorry. 
> 
> But anyway, here's Winterhawk and the Avengers as criminals, so there's that.

By habit, by rule, they work alone.

Occasionally when the job calls for it, and when it’s a very, very good job, they manage to put aside their conflicting type-A personalities and play to their strengths. Or to whatever the job requires. They broke that rule in Dubai, in Amsterdam, in Cape Town, in some other off-the-record places that Interpol and the Feds hadn’t been able to link any of them to yet. But they consider those outliers.

The rule's the rule.

It isn’t that they don’t get along. In fact, their circle probably consists of the only people in their respective fields any of them would even consider working with, considering that whole ‘no honor among thieves’ issue. _Trust_ is a very strong word, particularly when millions of dollars, their freedom, and as past examples have shown, their very lives are on the line. But, they had the closest thing to it. 

It’s hard to stab someone in the back if they’re the best approximation to what your job and lifestyle allows you to consider a colleague or friend. Really, if it weren’t such a massive security risk for all parties involved to be gathered in the same place at the same time- and if it weren’t the FBI, Interpol, and a couple other agencies’ wet dream- they could’ve had a hell of a monthly Friday night poker game.

The last time more than two of them had been in a room together was the debrief, Dubai, almost three years back. That had been a hell of a the score. Not quite a retirement worthy, ‘buy yourself an island outside the scope of extradition policy’ level score, but more of a ‘rent yourself an island for a year, kick back with a Mai Tai on the beach, and send the director of the FBI a postcard’ kind of score.

Only four of them had been involved in Dubai. It wasn’t about hard feelings or cutting anyone out, it was just all that was needed. They each had their skill sets, and the typical job didn’t have a niche or need for all of them. In fact, up to that point, no job had. It was safer, more efficient that way. Besides, they each had their own thing, their own jobs and their own problems, going on around the time Dubai went down anyway.

But this… this was like nothing they’d ever done before.

And they’d probably never do it again.


	2. Stage 1: some assembly required

“So, Tony, been keeping yourself busy?” Sam asked, leaning casually against the radiator. It was the one spot in the room that the one, fogged up, soot blackened window set high in the wall allowed even halfway decent light to pool across the concrete floor of the dim room. More of a cellar, really.

The man in question laughed, not bothering to look up from where he was elbows deep in a printing press that must have been older than the three of them combined. The rattling shriek of rusted metal joints giving way as he put his weight behind the wrench he was wielding didn’t allow for a more eloquent or lengthy response.

Tony stopped, sighing as he withdrew from the belly of the machine, tossing the wrench into his tool box with a clatter and rocking back on his heels. He rested his grease-streaked forearms on his knees.  “Oh, sorry, did I give the impression that I’m in the middle of something?” he asked with no shortage of sarcasm, but the grin on his face said it was all in good jest.

“Well, it’s difficult to say with you, Stark. Sometimes it’s a job, sometimes just a hobby,” Steve remarked as he stepped closer and squatted down to examine the machine- one of multiple that Tony had stowed away in this, his current workshop, and under various stages of repair. “Is this a Roland CT, ‘47 edition?” Steve asked, curious.

“Yep, one of only a few classic linotypes left,” Tony said with a proud, increasingly mischievous smile.

“Just a coincidence that it’s also one of the only presses that could hypothetically be used to make monetary engraving plates for, just for example, the US dollar?” Steve raised an interested eyebrow at the other man.

“What?” he asked, with faux surprise. “It can do that? Learn something new every day I guess.” Tony shrugged and began rooting around his tool box.

Sam snorted, rolling his eyes. “Since when have you been in the printing business?”

“Allegedly,” Tony corrected, giving Sam a sharp look. But then, no one lasted long in their lines of work without a hefty dose of both caution and paranoia. You never knew who was listening. “Allegedly in the printing business. And I’m not,” he conceded. “That’s, allegedly, Steve’s area of expertise after all.” He sent Steve a sly wink.

“One of them, _allegedly_ ,” Steve corrected, though he was only poking fun now.

“No,” Tony continued, finding a socket wrench he found suitable. “No I’m just taking a little break from the IT department. A break every once in a while does me good. It’s fun to get my hands dirty every once in a while. Also, I may or may not be keeping my head down for a bit. A certain Serbian drug lord is looking for a cache of money he misplaced and is operating under the misguided assumption that I had something to do with it.”

“Oh, is that all?” Steve asked, almost laughing at just how Tony Stark-esque that sounded.

“Well, plus, you know that just one of these babies, all refurbished, can hypothetically go for upwards of 30k a pop? If you know the right people, that is. I do.”

“Nice pocket change,” Sam nodded, brushing dust off his suit jacket.

It was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. “Not all of us have day jobs,” he said, giving Sam a look.

“Right. Just hobbies that pay really well,” Tony said, leaning around Steve to throw a wrench at Sam- without much speed or force, though. Sam stepped quickly out of the way with a curse, scowling at Tony, who cackled gleefully.

Steve just shook his head, suppressing a smile. His personal “hobby” was what those outside the spectrum of law enforcement affectionately referred to as “arts and crafts”. Forgery might’ve been a more direct name for it, but also a name with consequences. Anything from documents to paintings to a few really old bottles of wine or a notable piece of jewelry or two, Steve had tried his hand at it. He also had a few originals in a small Boston art gallery- near his most recent residence- and he’d sold to a few personal collections, which supplemented his income, but he was more concerned with the facade and cover identity it provided.

Tony Stark then was as opposite to him as they came. For him, everything was digital. In darknet rings he worked under the pseudonym ‘Iron Man’, putting his hacking skills to good use through what he called ‘public service’, which was pro-bono, like erasing student debt, draining accounts with too many zeros under names of people who were too important into charities, and stealing “national security” documents concerning shady government business in his neverending crusade for ‘the public’s right to know’. Then of course there was what he was paid to do, like erase digital footprints, create new identities, or commit an online bank heist halfway across the world, but he mostly worked for himself.

And they needed his particular skill set.

Steve and Sam had only managed to get in contact with him in the last week. Arranging a face to face meet to discuss the details had been even trickier. It involved a few last minute connecting flights to Gdansk, Poland, where they currently found themselves in a small, dimly lit cellar beneath a farmhouse on the outskirts of the city.

“I wouldn’t call it a day job,” Sam griped like they’d insulted him. “I wouldn’t be able to fly to fucking nowhere Poland on a whim if it were.”

“Oh, boo,” Tony mocked him, wiping his wrist across his forehead but only managing to leave a black smear over his eye. Still talking, he dove back into the partly disassembled underbelly of the press, his words coming through the clanging and creaking of his work. “You work a cushy office gig as yet another cog in the capitalist machine. Don’t let the terms “independent” or “consultant” fool you. There’s a certain amount of irony, or maybe just a paradox, to the system in which we all live in. I call it Schrodinger’s Laborer: are you really independent with an adequate knowledge of and ability to exercise choice as a consumer and laborer, even if we are aware of the conundrum? Or do any of us actually have a choice in an economic and political system dependent on brainwashing via inadequate public education, political propaganda, and 24/7 advertisement?”

“Tony-” Steve sighed, knowing where this was going.

“What?” he called out from the metal confines that engulfed his upper half, sounding halfway indignant, but it was hard to tell. “There is a serious political, philosophical, and socio-ethical conversation to be had about this. George Orwell, essay on ‘Politics and the English Language’: “Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.” So tell me-”

“Tony, we’ve heard it before,” Steve tried again, but he knew it was too late..

“Back to Schrodinger, are you self-aware and independent, or are you not? Does it really matter if, until we overthrow the systems that be, you have to exist somewhere in between?” Tony pulled his head out of the press, taking a breath.“Sorry, I rant, I apologize. Anyway, point is Sam, you _work_ for the man. Hope you’re proud of yourself. Your _hobby_ is hanging out with us allegedly criminal types.”

Sam worked as an independent contractor, ex special forces as he was, for a private security firm. That much at least Tony had right. It paid exceedingly well, mostly involved consulting over-paranoid clients on their personal security habits and their installation of security measures in private offices and residences. However, it also gave him access to information and contacts, which was social capital as good as it got in certain lines of work.

Sam had reached out to Steve before the wheel on this thing had started rolling, asking him for a consult to verify the credentials of a multi-million dollar painting Sam’s client was considering buying at auction. They’d been in contact for a few weeks in their downtime, and what started as a hypothetical daydream slowly being hashed out into a tangible, actionable plan.

“Allegedly _white collar_ criminal types, Tony. You always manage to forget that part. Makes us sound more interesting than we are,” Steve said with an amused smile.

“Well, I’m the one with the steady, perfectly legal paycheck every month,” Sam retorted.

“We get it. You sold your soul. Now please take yourself and your negative aura someplace else. Bad karma and all that. I’m working here.”

“Oh shut the hell up,” Sam snapped, crossing his arms. “Would you just answer the goddamn question we flew all the way over here to ask already?”

Stilling, Tony withdrew his head from the metal confines of the machine. “Didn’t I already? I thought I did.”

“No, not really,” Steve said, shrugging.

“Oh, must’ve been my internal monologue. Well, anyway, yes then. I’ll do it,” Tony said, and as Sam heaved a sigh of relief- likely more at the fact he could leave than because Tony was on board- the type of grin that spelled trouble was stretching across Tony’s face. “Sounds like fun.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thor was easier.

“Gin and tonic, on the rocks,” Steve said, leaning on his elbows over bar. It was late in the night, and the last patrons were huddled in booths or at the other end of the bar.

Thor- a big man, impressive enough to take one look inside the classy establishment and know it wasn’t the place the cause trouble- turned around at the familiar voice, first with a look of surprise, then with a broad smile. He was ex green berets, not that he really looked the part anymore. His hair was tied back and he wore simple jeans and a black t-shirt which showed off the many intricate tattoos running up and down his arms, but despite that and the muscles upon muscles, he still managed to cut a friendly, non threatening figure. Steve mused about how Bucky could learn a thing or two about that from the guy.

Setting the rag he’d been wiping the polished wood down with aside, Thor reached across the bar to clasp Steve’s hand in a strong shake. “For it being a few years you have excellent timing. Here I was about to do last call,” Thor joked, releasing Steve’s hand.

“It has been a while, hasn’t it,” Steve acknowledged. It wasn’t a guilt trip. Thor wasn’t like that. It was just the truth.

Thor reached down a tumbler, preparing Steve’s drink. “On the house.”

“Thanks,” Steve said with a nod, pulling over a bar chair and taking a seat.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you find me here?” Thor asked, voice low but not conspiratorial, raising a curious brow.

“Well, it’s not like you’re hiding,” Steve said, accepting the drink and taking a sip.

“That is true,” Thor nodded, taking up his rag again and but staying where he was, hip checked against the bar. The feds weren’t looking, he wasn’t like Tony- the paranoid type that can never stop looking over his shoulder- and honestly there weren’t many people with the gall to hunt down a guy with his reputation. There would be no point in hiding.

“Are you just passing through, or planning on sticking around?” Steve asked. “Or are you here for a job?” In some ways Toronto seemed to fit Thor, but Steve couldn’t see the man settling down anywhere for too long. As for the job, well, if that was the case Steve hoped that his proposition would be more enticing.

“So many questions. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, or where I’ll go next. And I’m not here for any particular reason. So I believe it isn’t a coincidence you just happened to walk into my bar. And I can’t imagine those are the questions you want to ask.” Thor stepped away for a moment to collect abandoned beer bottles and glasses at the other end of the bar and a few tables, leaving Steve to nod his agreement to no one in particular. When he stepped back behind the bar, he didn’t let Steve respond. “And I would still like to know how you found me.”

That was understandable. “Tony,” Steve simply declared like it was enough of an explanation, and it was.

“Ah, I see,” Thor nodded. “Then you two are working on something?”

“And Sam.”

He considered that for a moment. “We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, I believe. Though I have heard much of him. Through Dr. Banner.”

“You’ve spoken with Banner recently?” Steve asked, genuinely surprised.

“A few months back. June. He was in Chicago, and found himself, how should I say, between a rock and a hard place after being approached by some…” Thor’s expression twisted unpleasantly, like tasting something bitter. “Unfavorable blue collar clients, who didn’t like ‘no’ as an answer.”

Steve was only partly surprised. As a doctor with an extra side to his career, Bruce Banner was known in some circles to be willing to help in a pinch when mobility, funds, or the threat of law enforcement closing in on hospitals was a problem. He had a valued serviced, and enough connections that people you didn’t want to piss off would be pissed if something happened to him, so for the most part he never had much to worry about. Still, some low lifes- blue collar, Thor had called them, which usually meant street level thugs or that it was gang affiliated- didn’t alway think about the bigger picture.

Of course, the good doctor was also something of an acquisitions expert. Professionals like him who cater to the needs of- and rack up a good number of IOUs and favors from- a wide variety of the privileged and wealthy, not all of them as clean as they appear on paper, where good people to know and have in your back pocket on a operation of the sort they were planning.

“He okay? What’d you do?”

“He’s fine, though I think he left Chicago. I removed the ‘hard place’,” Thor explained, avoiding details due to the public nature of their conversation, but he got the idea.

“Alright, well, I’m sure you and Sam would get along great. He’s ex Air Force, special operations command,” Steve explained, figuring their similar backgrounds would help. “Great guy, good head on his shoulders.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t be friends with anyone who didn’t,” Thor said. “You three then,” he corrected himself, “you have something planned.” It wasn’t a question.

“A potential job lined up. Need some help.”

“Who’s the client?” Thor asked. “Anyone I know?”

Steve shook his head, downing the last of his drink. “No, no client. Custom job. Keeping it all in house.”

Thor considered that as he took Steve’s glass from him. “How much help?”

Steve huffed out a breath. “Everyone,” he said, and Thor looked surprised. “This is big. We’re bringing the band back together.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Brucie, _come on_ ,” Tony coaxed, pleading as his displeased host pointed yet again at the door.

“Out of my house, Tony,” Bruce ordered, pointing at the door. He was unmoved by Tony’s display of begging, pleading, his attempts at bribing, persuading, poor tries at threatening, his quickly retracted threat of blackmailing, reasoning, more pleading, and every other tactic he had employed over the past two hours.

“Don’t you want in on this? You can’t tell me you’re not curious. Just a little. Plus, think how fun it’ll be? Getting the whole crew together? And the score, just think of it-”

“No, Tony,” Bruce said, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. “It sounds stupid is what it sounds like. Everyone in one place? How many law enforcement agencies-”

“-oh don’t give me that-”

“-domestic _and_ international-”

“-psh,” Tony scoffed, brushing it off. “Nothing I can’t throw off with a little-”

“All of you in one place? You’re wanted criminals-”

“Alleged!” Tony yelled, “alleged criminals. And excluding yourself is a little hypocritical don’t you think? And the only warrants out are for a couple pseudonyms. No pictures, no evidence-”

“And I’d like to stay out of it. Best quit while I’m ahead. I’m clean and my business is-”

“Yeah,” Tony rolled his eyes. “How rewarding exactly is making house calls to Hollywood’s famous and dying? What’s the worst you’ve dealt with now? Papercuts? Uneven sun tans?”

“Cocaine overdoses and crashing sports cars into trees with prostitutes on their laps actually but that’s beside the point,” Bruce complained. “I’m-”

“You’re a glorified ambulance driver,” Tony said, smiling sympathetically.

Bruce sighed, turning and walking away from Tony back toward his kitchen. “I should just go back to India, shouldn’t I?” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “I should. I’ll disappear, doing my good deed to the universe, and then _maybe_ , _finally_ ,” he said, turning back to look accusatorally at Tony, “you’ll never bother me again.”

Tony gasped dramatically, doing a good show of looking hurt. “Dr. Banner, I’m offended. We’re old friends. At least I _thought_ we were. You go too far. How dare. How very much dare you.”

Bruce sighed. “I’m _busy_ Tony. I have an office, and office hours, and appointments, and patients, and my calendar is filled.” He crossed his arms and stood his ground, looking defiant.

“About… that…” Tony started, hemming and hawing, shifting from foot to foot and looking more than a little guilty.

“What did you do?” Bruce immediately demanded.

“Don’t get angry-”

“What. Did. You. _Do_.”

“I theoretically got into your computer and rearranged your schedule while you were in the bathroom and emailed your clients that you’ll be unreachable so you’re in the clear and you can fly to New York with me.” Tony took a breath.

“I am going to theoretically kill you and make it look like a theoretical accident,” Bruce deadpanned.

“That’s the criminal spirit,” Tony cheered, grinning.

“Out.”

“Problem is, I also booked every one of your vacated appointments over the next week and a half. They’re mine now. You charge hourly, right?,” Tony asked, smile only growing. “So come on, take a trip to New York with me and get paid doing it.”

“You can’t afford me, Tony. I don’t care how much you pay me,” Bruce sighed, and he really did have a headache now. He had run dry of patience. Tony had a way of doing that to people.

“Well, don’t worry about that. The Medina Cartel will be paying for it,” Tony said, shrugging.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Theoretically, of course.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Steve was having a marginally worse time. There were no arms he could twist behind anyone’s back this time. Even back on the playground, it was usually Bucky who was doing the arm twisting.

“Hell. No.”

“Bucky, come on, hear me out at least-” The apartment door slamming shut in his face was probably the best answer Steve was going to get. Still, he was nothing if not tenacious. “Bucky!” he yelled through the wood, indignant. “Buck! Be mature about this, please.”

There was no response from the other side of the door.

“Well fine then. Don’t. But I’m not going anywhere until you at least hear me out. And I’m not gonna explain from here. There are _some_ things best left said in private. _Not through a door_.” Steve planted his feet, leaning his shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed. He waited a few more minutes, but still nothing. “You’re gonna have to come out eventually.”

“Ha,” he heard Bucky laugh, without humor, from inside. “You’d be surprised. I think I can outlast you.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Steve gave it another few minutes of silence before he started pounding on the door. “Open the goddamn door, Buck. I just want to talk.”

The door whipped open, taking Steve by surprise as he found himself face to face with a rather pissed of Bucky Barnes. “I know exactly what you wanna talk about. It’s what you’ve been tryina’ talk to me about ever since I got back stateside. No, I’m not interested in goin’ out. No, I’m not interested in meetin’ any more of your goddamn friends. Sam is bad enough. And no, I’m not interested in another goddamn job, Rogers. Not with you or anyone.” He paused to take a breath, his dark scowl not easing up in the slightest. “So, did that about cover it?”

“Well,” Steve started, trying to collect his thoughts into words because he hadn’t actually thought ahead to what he would say if Bucky actually opened the door. “Not quite.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Get in.” He grabbed Steve’s elbow and yanked him inside. The door slammed shut yet again behind him.

Steve considered himself a fairly convincing person. He considered himself a quick thinker and a faster talker. Presenting a convincing fake ID is just as much about the attention to details on the document itself as it is how convincingly you sell it. Problem was, Bucky knew all his tricks and tells. They grew up together. There was no pulling the wool over his eyes, no sympathy cards to pull or guilt trips to drag him on, and there would definitely be no getting him to do anything he did not want to do.

Honesty, then, was the best policy. So Steve explained, with minimal and as non-incriminating as possible, yet necessary detail, their plan for their biggest score yet.

One for the history books.

One Bucky was not interested in at all.

“Are you done?” he asked, tone flat.

“Yeah, that’s about it,” Steve said, shrugging.

“Okay. So I’ve heard you out. And now, because we’re friends, I’m even gonna consider it for a minute,” Bucky deadpanned, staring blankly at Steve.

Steve waited awkwardly for a moment as Bucky didn’t move, just kept staring right at him. “So-”

“Still considering. It hasn’t been a minute yet.”

“Bucky,” Steve groaned, turning and walking away a few steps before dropping onto the couch. “Why do you have to do this?”

He ignored him. “I think it’s been a minute,” Bucky said, arms crossed as he pivoted to face Steve. “So here’s my answer: Hell. No.”

Steve just sighed, dropping his head into his hands. A silent moment passed, with Bucky wandering over to stare out the window.

“Steve,” Bucky called out eventually, voice softer this time. Steve looked up, but his back was still turned to him as he stared down at the street below.

“Yeah?”

“You move to Boston just because you heard I was here?” He didn’t answer right away, which Bucky took as a clear enough answer regardless. He sighed, crossing his arms tighter. “Figures.”

“Hey,” Steve said, trying for reassuring but cautious of coming off as too sympathetic, which he knew he hated. “You look good. If I were that concerned, you know I would give you nearly this much space.”

Bucky snorted at that, in part because he knew it was true. “I haven’t showered in three days, I can’t work up the nerve to walk to the corner store without a concealed sidearm, and I can’t step outside at all without fighting the urge to do a perimeter sweep first and running visual recon on every person in the street for a potential threat when I know there is none,” Bucky blurted out, still refusing to look Steve in the eye or even to face him, in what was probably the most blunt moment of honesty they’d had since what had happened.

Steve rose from his seat without a word, making enough noise for Bucky to know he was walking up beside him. “Well,” Steve said, keeping his tone even and as far from patronizing as he could make it. “A man has a right to shower when he sees fit, you have a concealed carry license so I can’t see why you shouldn’t use it, and the fact that you’re this aware of what you’re doing seems like a major improvement to me.”

“That license expired years ago and you know it.”

“Oh, it did?” Steve asked, surprised. “No matter, I’ll make you a new one.”

Bucky whirled on him, glancing around out of habit for a second before glaring at Steve. “Shut up. Don’t say shit like that.”

“What,” Steve laughed, “It’s not like it’s hard.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky urged again, hitting his shoulder as he turned and stalked away. “You never know who’s listening. You’re gonna get yourself arrested for something stupid one day, Rogers.”

“Oh god, you’re just like Tony. _You’re_ the only one listening, Buck. Don’t tell me you don’t sweep this place for bugs twice a day,” Steve laughed. Bucky looked a little self conscious at that. “Hey, relax, we all do _that_. It’s just common sense.”

That got a little half smile out of Bucky, wavering even as it was, so Steve considered it a win.

Bucky sighed, dropping onto the couch. “I appreciate that you’re trying, Steve, I do. But even if I wanted to- I just-” he cut himself off, shaking his head and dropping his gaze. “I don’t think you’d want me on your team. Hell, _I_ wouldn’t want me on your team in your team.” He reached across his body almost subconsciously to rub at his left shoulder, like the pain was still there. The scars certainly were.

“Bucky,” Steve said as seriously as he could manage, “if I didn’t think you could do it, if I thought you or someone else would get hurt, if I didn’t trust you to know your limits and to back out if you need to, I would never have asked you in the first place.” Bucky glanced up at him, seeing the stoney set to his expression that told him he meant it. Every word.

Another silent moment passed between them. “I’m curious, not gonna lie,” Bucky eventually muttered, and Steve perked right up.

“Oh yeah?”

“There are a few pretty obvious security flaws, things that should be way simplified, which honestly I’m surprised you’ve missed still-”

“Excuse me? Did I march into your house and start insulting you? No. I have been nothing but supportive-”

“Rappelling gear, Steve? You want to rappel? Come on,” Bucky said, giving him a dubious look.

“Well first of all, _I_ wouldn’t be rappelling, and second of all, it’s a rough draft, okay? A very rough draft. But hey, that’s why we need your help.”

“Bullshit. You’ve got Thor on board. There’s your muscle. And give Sam a chance and he’ll figure the strategy part out. He does that security consulting whatever for a living, doesn’t he? I’d just be unnecessary baggage.”

“You call yourself that again and I’ll tell your sisters on you,” Steve threatened. “And no, Buck, neither of them do what you do. Nobody does. Plus, we only have one of Thor. And I wouldn’t want anybody else to have my and everybody else’s back. Again, if I thought you weren’t necessary, I wouldn’t put you up to it.”

Bucky sighed frustratedly, clearly weighing up pros and cons in his head. Steve was just excited that he’d considered it this far. “You said the expected takeaway is how many millions? I think I misheard you, because that’s ridiculous.”

“You heard right. And that’s not total. That’s per cut.”

“What the fuck?” Bucky blurted out, staring at him like he was lying to his face. “Where the fuck did you get those estimates?”

“Fury,” Steve said, referring to the well known fence and acquisitions expert they had all used in the past. If you needed something sold, moved, or bought, he was the guy. He had a whole infrastructure behind it too.

“Well I don’t believe you, but okay. How many ways is that split?”

“I’m banking on eight,” Steve said, sitting down across from Bucky.

“Eight? That’s a lot of moving parts. More than any of us have done, I think.”

“Maybe, but the plan is to keep it all in house. Only people we know, who we’ve worked with before. Less risk, less friction.”

Bucky frowned, thinking. “Okay, so are you captaining this thing or is Sam?”

“Looks like I am, if we can get it off the ground.”

“Okay so that’s captain and forger filled in one,” Bucky counted off on his fingers. “Sam’s semi-legitimate at least and he’s got the in so he’s your frontman.” Steve nodded in agreement. “Then you’ve got Stark-” Bucky laughed “- who’s a lot of things, but he’ll handle tech.”

“Hacker, covered.”

Bucky continued. “And you’re gonna need a hell of a hitter. Thor better be on his game, or shit’s gonna hit the fan.”

Steve nodded, smiling. “You’re talking like you’re in.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Rogers,” he muttered. “This is all hypothetical.”

“Oh, of course,” Steve said, but he was still grinning like a fool. “Tony’s been working on Dr. Banner. Last I heard, he’ll get Bruce to the meeting this Friday, but he’s not sold on it yet. I’m not worried about him though. Once he’s in the door, we’ll get him hooked.”

“That’s five. You want me in what capacity exactly?”

“Extraction specialist.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at him. “Fancy name for a guy that doesn’t do much.”

“You’re joking, right? First of all, bad day or not, I’d be hesitant to put money down either way between you and Thor in a fight,” Steve said, looking like he was personally offended. “Second of all, hostage negotiation is _not_ a soft skill, okay? You’ve been the go-to guy for negotiation, ranson and retrieval under,” Steve hesitated on what to call it, “ _unfavorable_ conditions for how long now? You have more than triple to success rate of the Feds.”

“ _Had_ , I’m done with that now, and I think you seriously overestimate the Feds” Bucky quipped.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re ‘retired’, you’ve said it before” Steve said with honest to god finger quotes. “Whatever you say. Point is, we need you Buck. I need you,” Steve insisted.

“Don’t get soft on me now,” Bucky muttered. He moved on quickly. “That would be six, _if_ I were gonna do it. Then you still still need, damn, you want this to work you need the best damn grifter on the face of the earth. And we both know who that’d be.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “we do. I’m- I’m still working on that, but shouldn’t be a problem” he said hesitantly at first, then overconfident.

“You’re still a shit bluff, Rogers. You don’t have Natasha on board?” Bucky asked with no small note of disbelief. “Are you kidding me? Why the hell even bother trying to convince me if you don’t have the one person that might be able to pull this off?”

“She’s a little difficult to reach, alright? Calm down, you know she’s always been amicable about jumping on with these sorts of things in the past-”

“Never this big or risky of a heist!” Bucky said like it was obvious, because it was. “Dear god, Stevie. This’ll all be for nothing if she isn’t game. Hell, you’ll have got me interested in this for nothing.”

“So you are interested,” Steve clarified, to which Bucky sent him a withering look.

“If I was, I’m not now,” Bucky said, crossing his arms. “You get Natasha on board, then _maybe_ I’ll think about it. Fuck, you get Natasha on board, then I’ll go the meeting Friday.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, Buck,” Steve swore. “She’s next on my list.”

“Yeah, whatever. _Assuming_ that Nat’s willing, that leaves one other massive fucking hole in the plan. Who’s your thief?”

Steve grinned. “Ah. right. I think you’ll like the guy. Nobody’s talked to him about it yet, but he’s the plan.”

“Who?”

“Name’s Clint Barton. You heard of him?”

“No,” Bucky said, doubtful. “I haven’t.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

She was wearing a dress  more expensive than a whole year’s worth of rent for that Brooklyn Heights apartment Steve had just signed the papers for. Of course, he was just subleasing at a weekly rate. New York was just a pit stop in the grand scheme of things. Still, it was a high end place. And if Steve knew anything about women’s shoes, he’d probably up his estimate for that outfit to two years’ rent.

The dress was a deep pink, which he thought would’ve clashed with the bright red curls tumbling down her back, but seeing her laugh and toss her hair over her shoulder, it didn’t. It was at the same time revealing and form fitting, but not scandalously so. It was simple, and yet incredibly elegant, and complemented nicely by the diamonds glittering around her throat and dripping from her ears.

The clutch purse on the table in front of her was small and compact, but he approached with great caution nevertheless. He didn’t put it past her to carry at least one weapon on her person somewhere, somehow. Not that she ever needed it.

Natasha Romanova was definitely in the middle of something. Everything about her, from the way she dressed and held herself to the way she giggled and sipped her flute of champagne with the other four equally well dressed ladies at the table- none of whom looked like her usual company- said that she was working. Perhaps one of them, or perhaps all of them were her marks. Maybe it was one of their husbands, or they could have just been the means of establishing her cover in the beginning stages of a longer con. There was no telling with her.

Steve was loath to get in her way or to throw off her current job by doing or saying anything in front of the wrong person, or even by approaching like he recognized her. But it had been difficult enough to find her, and would be more difficult still to try and arrange a later meeting, given the current deadline they were working with.

Unsurprisingly however, while he stood there in the middle of the bustling outdoor plaza filled with the movement and chatter of various restaurant and cafe waiters and patrons, she singled him out in the light crowd almost immediately.

“Preston!” She called out, making a show of twisting around in her seat slightly and waving delicately at him, her smile bright and her tone frilly and faux champagne-loosened. She was in character. And she was really quite good.

He crossed the plaza in her direction, smiling and waving back politely to her and the other ladies in her company. He was just glad that with his business casual blazer and khakis he sort of dressed the part.

Natasha rose from her chair and navigated around the milling crowd, tripping as her heels caught on the cobblestone only a little as she hurried toward him. She was faking that, he was sure of it, given the Natasha Romanova he knew could kill a man in stilettos and then flirt with the police afterword to walk away clean.  Steve, or ‘Preston’, which he thought was an unfortunate name but sounded like the kind of guy who would walk in these ladies’ circles, couldn’t get a word out before she crashed into his arms, throwing her arms up around his neck in a hug.

“You’re my boyfriend that I always talk about but my friends never see, and you’ve surprised me with a visit,” Natasha hurriedly said in a low, flat tone, completely divorced from her demeanor. “Now hug me back.”

He rolled with it.

When she pulled away, she grabbed his hand and tugged him across the plaza to some benches along the side in front of a few boutique storefronts. Natasha waved off the ladies at the table who were motioning and calling for them to come over, holding up a finger and pleading for just one minute. They relented, all giggles and smiles and wide eyed glances as they gossiped behind her back.

“I am _very_ sorry to interrupt, Natasha, I know you’re working and I really hope I didn’t blow anything for you but you’re very hard to find and I was running out of time,” he began in a rush.

Natasha interrupted him when he paused to take a breath. “No worries, they were getting obnoxious anyway,” she said, glancing back at the table with distaste. “Is this about the little class reunion you have planned?”

Steve stumbled over his next words, more than a little stunned. “I- wha- how did you-” he grabbed her forearm, pulling her closer in. “It is very important that you tell me how you know that,” he demanded, voice hushed and deadly serious.

“Steven, breath, relax,” she said, slowly extricating herself from his grip. “A girl knows things,” she said by way of explanation, but it wasn’t good enough. Not even close.

“Natasha,” he warned, because he wasn’t kidding around. Only eight people in the world were allowed to know about it, and including himself and Sam, they’d only informed six. And she should not have known yet. “Who told you?”

“Sam left an appropriately vague message on one of my burner cells. Plus, I heard that you two were back in town after your little trans-European tour. I _also_ heard that Barnes is stateside again, interestingly enough.” It wasn’t a question she sought verifying or a statement begging of a comment, only an observation that she wanted him to know that she knew.

For a second he pondered it might just be scary what she knew that she would never hint at or give away.

Steve exhaled slowly, straightening up and forcing a smile on his face. “Okay,” he said calmly. “Delete that message, and I’m going to have a strongly worded talk with Wilson. This whole thing can go up in flames before it even gets off the drawing board.”

Natasha raised delicately arched eyebrows at him. “Already done. But have I ever told you that you sound like Tony sometimes?”

Steve sighed. “I think we could all stand to sound more like Tony sometimes, just don’t tell him I said that. There’s nothing wrong with a little precaution.”

Natasha hummed in agreement, but then her expression shifted to something more thoughtful. “But tell me, is this about the job, about bringing the team together do do something we haven’t been able to do before?” She gave him a knowing look. “Or is this about you getting James back in the saddle?”

Steve paused, looking up to follow the path of a couple tourists the wandered too close for a moment before he turned back to meet her unwavering gaze. “Does it have to be just one thing?” he asked. “Or would it be so bad, if I had more than one goal in mind? I think,” he said, pausing cautiously, “it would be a little hypocritical of you to criticize me for that.”

Natasha was silent for a moment, examining him intensely with that sort of effortless gaze that kept a Grand Canyon between him and understanding what she was thinking, but then she nodded once, slowly, seeming satisfied with his answer. “I trust you Steve. I don’t know yet if I’m going to regret it, but I’m willing to go out on a limb here. But then, I’m also intrigued. So, send me the details on the where and when, and I’ll be there. Sam knows the number. _However_ ,” she said, and Steve knew there was a caveat coming, “if I’m going to stay past the first meeting, I have one condition.”

Steve waited silently for her to say it, but finally relented, asking, “And what would that condition be?”

“Clint.”

Steve inhaled slowly, mind racing for a way out of this one. “I know, I know, after what happened with Loki he’s done and out and I respect that, but I think it’s only _fair_ that he _knows_ he has a place here if-” He cut himself off at the disapproving look Natasha was sending him, wincing apologetically.

“Two birds, one stone,” she declared. “I want you to get Clint to the first meeting.” At Steve’s surprised expression, she rolled her eyes, continuing. “I don’t care how you do it Rogers. Convince him, bribe him, abduct him- bring James. They’ll like each other. Whatever works. Just do it.”

He considered it. “If you want him back in, shouldn’t you be the one to-”

She shook her head disapprovingly. “He already knows knows I’ve been trying, and as much as I hate to say it, I’ve failed. He doesn’t trust anything I do or say right now, expects everything to have a double meaning or purpose.” She ignored the look Steve gave her that said ‘Well doesn’t it?’. “You, however, might be able to get somewhere with him. He respects you. And James is pretty, so that helps.”

Steve opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. “I- okay but, I have no idea where to even find him. Unlike with you, Tony’s had no luck locating him.”

“That would be because unlike some of us, he’s actually _trying_ to stay below the radar,” Natasha said like she was highlighting the obvious. “But that’s also a very easy fix. He’s already in New York. He never left actually. Bed-Stuy. I’ll send the address.”

Steve nodded, about the take his leave.

“But, Steve, you should know, he’s been, ah, having it out with his previous landlord. The situation has escalated, from what I can tell. So be careful. That might be another reason to bring James along.”

“Right. Okay,” Steve said, nodding. “What exactly am I walking into?” Stage one, just getting people in the door, was getting a little more complicated than previously anticipated.

But Natasha just smiled knowingly, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she stood. “Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure. But where do you think you’re going? Unless you want to stage a very public, rather unfortunate break-up right here and now- which really I wouldn’t be opposed to- you’re coming with me to meet the girls, _Preston_.” She said the name like she took pleasure in how she knew he hated it, a wicked gleam in her eyes, but for all the world to see she was smiling imploringly at him, fluttering her eyelashes for good measure.

It was the sweet sort of smile that was only disarming so long as you’d never seen the type of ruin it had brought men to before.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“This is bullshit,” Bucky complained for the hundredth time.

His hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and a permanent glare fixed on his face, Steve only tolerated his attitude because he walked next to him as he parted the sidewalk traffic as the current of pedestrians against them got one look of the murderous look on his face and scurried out of the way. Bucky was aware of this. He didn’t care. He didn’t know if he could tolerate the crowd induced claustrophobia anyway.

“So you keep saying,” Steve sighed, rolling his eyes.

“I shoulda’ kicked your ass to the curb yesterday when you came knocking,” Bucky muttered. “I could be home right now. With a resting heart rate. I wouldn’t have had to spend two hours trapped beside you’re loud mouth and behind a screaming toddler on a plane for two hours. I wouldn’t be in the middle of- fuck, where the hell are we now?”

“Bed-Stuy. I told you that you didn’t have to come,” Steve reminded him, his pleased smile and the little hop in his step never wavering. In fact, the more murder Bucky channeled into his outward attitude, the more ‘happy-go-lucky idiot’ Bucky was pretty sure Steve channeled into his. It was fucking annoying.

“Bullshit. You gave me no fuckin’ choice and you know it.”

“Do you enjoy swearing so much? Is it cathartic? Doesn’t it just lower the mood of the situation even worse?” Steve asked, looking at him funny.

“Brave words for someone in stabbing range, Steven. A hypocritical asshat is what you are. I got a right to angry, okay? Fuck off,” Bucky swore bitterly, scowling even more as he marched ahead a few paces so he wouldn’t have to look at Steve.

Steve, after jogging ahead a couple awkward steps, he made a valiant effort at de-escalating the situation. “Hey, alright, okay? I was just kidding.” He patted Bucky on the shoulder, or at least tried, given how Bucky jerked away, giving him a scathing side eye. “Your Ma _would_ wash your mouth out if she heard you though.”

“Do you see me swearing in front of my Ma? No, Steve, you don’t. Now stow it and tell me again why the hell I’m in Bed-Stuy instead of my apartment right now?”

“Cause you’re stepping out of your comfort zone,” Steve congratulated him cheerily.

“You _want_ me to punch you in the mouth? Cause I will.”

Steve sighed. “You have a way of sucking the joy right out of life, you know that?”

“Good.”

“We’re here to collect our alleged thief. Because we need him. And we also need Natasha, who won’t jump on board unless he does. And because we need you, who won’t go unless she does. And also because it got you to shower and step outside your apartment, didn’t it?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Okay, A, this ‘getting your pawns in order’ thing is getting way too complicated, and B, I can take care of myself, okay? A few bad days recently does not make me a shut-in. You make me sound like-”

“I know, I know,” Steve interrupted. “I know you’ve come a long way and you know I’m really proud of you for-”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve.”

“Fine.”

Bucky changed the topic. He didn’t like the other one, and the questions- and doubts- had been weighing on him ever since Steve barged into his apartment. “Who even is this Barton guy? If he’s so great, why’ve I never heard of him?”

“He _is_ great,” Steve insisted, still defending this guy Bucky had never heard of like he was personally offended. “Arguably the best, but don’t tell anyone I said that. And you’ve never heard of the name ‘Clint Barton’ because how great would he be if he flaunted his real name around? Come on now Buck,” he chided, shaking his head.

“Fine. I ever heard of anything he’s done?” Bucky asked, hurrying to add “-allegedly-” before Steve could correct him.

“Yep. Definitely.”

Bucky waited. Finally though, he took the bait. “Okay… so you gonna tell me or do I have to beat it out of you?”

“What would be the fun in ruining the surprise?” Steve asked, laughing.

Bucky ground to halt in the middle of the sidewalk, perturbed New Yorkers grumbling and sending frustrated looks his way as they were forced to adjust their trajectories around him. “Fuck you, Rogers. Honestly.”

“Ha,” Steve laughed, grabbing his elbow and yanking him into motion again. “Just meet the guy first, okay? Trust me, if I say anything else, you’ll get an idea in your head about who he’s supposed to be and I _promise_ you he’s not that. It’s better this way.”

“Even if he is, or _was_ great,” Bucky continued, not ready to drop the issue, “you said he’s been out of the game now for how long now? Dude’s retired, why not let him be?”

“Because he retired prematurely. Very prematurely. And because he’s the only guy we all know and mostly trust. Just watch your pockets though,” Steve added, idly patting his own just to check. “I think it’s just second nature to him at this point- can’t help himself. It should be one of those brownstones up on the right-”

A loud disturbance up ahead- the crowd parting against the flow of traffic, and agree yelling intermingled with curses- stopped Steve’s train of thought.

Bucky squinted up ahead. “What the-”

“Comin’ through! Make a hole! Watch it lady, sorry-” A speeding blur of blonde and purple darted out from amid the crowd at the mouth of the alley, vaulting over a bike parked outside the deli, spinning around the streetlamp at the corner, and sprinting up the sidewalk in their directing.

Bucky leapt out of the way in a sort of knee-jerk reflex, but Steve almost got bowled over by the guy, who was yelling apologies in his his wake. He grabbed Steve’s shoulder, stabilizing him.

Steve wasn’t paying much attention to him though. He did a double take, and spun around to stare after the guy who was managing to move a lot faster against the current than New Yorker laws of foot traffic should have allowed.

“The fuck that guy go?” a booming, very angry voice from the same place the guy had emerged carried across the sidewalk, presumably talking about the very same guy who had just run off like the devil himself was snapping at his heels.

Steve and Bucky whirled around to see four large- quite angry by the sound of them, and alarmingly armed by the looks of them- red tracksuit wearing guys standing and spinning in circles, looking in all directions.

“Clint?” Steve voiced aloud incredulously, snapping his head around to look back down the sidewalk in the direction they’d come. “Shit.”

And then he was running, sprinting off after the guy and leaving Bucky, cursing up a storm and resolving to murder Steve for getting him involved in whatever this was, to chase after him. “Steve! Wait the fuck up!”

Human Disaster guy may have been out of sight, but it was easy enough to follow the pissed off glares and to listen for the angry, surprised yelling and occasional honking that he left in his trail. After only a few blocks, in which Bucky only managed to almost get hit by a car twice, he made a sharp turn around the corner and ran smack into Steve’s back.

“Ow, fuck. What the hell, man?” he yelled at Steve, more than just agitated, but Steve ignored him, his attention instead fixed on whatever was going on toward the other end of the alley they’d stepped into.

And there, bent almost double at the dead end of the alley as he tried to catch his breath by the looks of it, Bucky spotted their quarry. He was half hidden by the dumpsters that lined one of the sides of the alley, his hands on his knees as his chest heaved, staring at the concrete.

He couldn’t help the mental threat evaluation. Male, thirties, purple hoodie (stained, blood splatter?), short disheveled blonde hair, pale complexion, faded jeans (they didn’t come torn up like that),  purple converse shoes (really?). Probably not armed by the looks of him, though he couldn’t be sure. Definitely something of a mess. Human Disaster was as good a mental reference name as any.

“Clint!” Steve yelled, starting toward the other end of the alley.

So Clint, apparently- their guy- jerked up at the sound, his whole stance shifting into fight or flight mode, his eyes immediately scanning around and landing on the two of them. “Steve?”

Steve started down the alley toward him, Bucky following him. “Buck, that’s-”

Bucky looked at Steve like he was personally offended, not sure whether to find that laughable or just stupid. “ _That’s_ the guy?”

“Hey, that’s the guy!” Booming Angry Voice over their shoulders answered for him.

They spun on their heels, Bucky immediately dropping into a defensive stance. Before he did though, he saw the guy- Bucky wasn’t sure what he was referring to him now as- who by all rights should have been cornered against the far wall at the dead end of the alley, run toward the dumpster, leap up onto the edge of it without slowing down, and then kicking off the wall and up into the air, grabbing the crumbling, half dismantled ancient fire escape that was barely hanging onto the building a full story above him, all in one quick fluid motion.

Bucky didn’t have time to question if gravity was still a thing though.

“Woah, gun!” Steve yelled, and Bucky who was beside him shoved him back against the wall and out of the way.

He was moving automatically, no time to overthink it or to think at all as the first tracksuited thug came thundering straight toward them, gun raised. It wasn’t pointing at him however, Bucky noticed. It was raised up too high. Like at a guy maybe climbing up to the second story by now.

Bucky sidestepped quickly before throwing his weight forward and bracing for when the first tracksuit’s momentum and lack of agility brought Bucky’s elbow crashing right into his sternum with a dull thud, knocking air right right out of him with an audible whoosh as his feet sailed out from under him. His head hit the ground and the gun clattered to the pavement, skittering away into a pile of trash.

Bucky straightened up in time for numbers two and three to be almost on top of him already. Another outraised handgun (who the hell runs with a gun extended like that anyway?) that this time he knocked aside with a quick swipe, following it through as he smashed his fist into two’s nose with a resounding crack. Two went down with a squeal. Number three manage to take a swing, slow and exaggerated, that Bucky easily leaned back from. Three was already off balance and stumbling from the missed force of the wing when Bucky stepped in close, grabbing hold of his own wrist behind the guy’s neck, and yanking three’s head down with a sharp tug as Bucky’s knee sailed upward sharply, right on the marl. He slammed his knee into three’s face and the guy sagged to the ground like a sack of bricks.

Number four was taking a cautionary, stumbling step backward as he fumbled for the gun in his waistband. Bucky darted forward and slammed his head into the brick wall, easy as that.

It all only took a couple seconds.

“Time to go,” he barked at Steve, who was staring a little dumbly, for as much as he couldn’t resist a good scrap- even before he grew the muscles and the extra few feet to back himself up with- he was not a fighter. Not quick and dirty and against all the rules like that.

Bucky was about to grab him and drag him bodily away before the cops could inevitably show up, but Steve pushed him off, instead running deeper into the alley. “Steve!” he yelled after him, frustrated and concerned for where a run-in with the police about this little skirmish he couldn’t even rightfully explain would lead them. No place good, he was certain.

“Clint, hold up,” Steve was yelling.

Bucky looked up to see, “holy fuck,” he breathed, blinking a few times to make sure he was seeing it right. Human Disaster was three and a half stories up, well past where the fire escape was already rusted apart and mangled beyond use, scaling the brick surface. He was clinging to nothing but the drainage pipe running up the side of the building and the tiny ledges of window sills and old decorative stone ridges in the facade. He was moving fast too, hand over hand, with truly impressive athleticism on display as he twisted himself this way and that to reach and haul himself up as he climbed.

Bucky noted it was impressive enough to be, interestingly, pretty attractive.

This guy- Clint, Bucky reminded himself- paused, looking back down into the alley. “Steve?” he asked again, panting slightly. “What the fuck?” Then he went rigid. “Aw hell no. Did Natasha send you?” he yelled down angrily, pivoting to get a better look at them. “How many time do I have to tell her that _I_ , am _fucking_ , _retired_. So fuck off.”

Bucky could relate to that, but he still couldn’t help but quip, “You don’t look retired,” with a smirk.

“Hey, I don’t even _know_ you buddy,” he hollered back, legitimately letting go of the window ledge with one hand- down to only two points of contact with the wall- just to put it on his hip sassily as he swung away from the building, swaying slightly, but still hanging on. “Even as admittedly impressive as that little beat down was, it doesn’t give you the right to stick your nose in my business.  So you can shut the hell up.”

“I think I’m already in your business,” Bucky snapped back, but he couldn’t get angry at this guy. It- and he- was all too ridiculous. “And so will the cops if we don’t get a move on _Steve_ ,” he said, embowing him in the ribs.

Human Disaster was already moving again, head craned back as he focused on his next hand hold. “Yeah Steve, like Angry Eyes said. Get a move on. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Clint get down here, I need to talk to you,” Steve said, ignoring him.

“Even if I wanted to, and mind you, I don’t,” Clint yelled back down to them, “down is a lot harder than up, and I didn’t exactly dress for the occas-”

And, just as she said it, in what was either the most glorious instance of irony or perhaps just the absolute worst collision of horrible luck and timing that Bucky had ever been graced with seeing with his own two eyes, he watched as Human Disaster’s foot slipped on the crumbling brick ledge.

“ _Awshoesno,_ ” he yelped in surprise and dismay as he slipped, first his knee colliding painfully with the wall, than his one good finger hold on an inch of jutting stone facade failing him as he plummeted back down toward the earth.

Turns out gravity was still a thing.

Steve started forward, but there was nothing either of them could do.

Only the open dumpster below saved Clint Barton- who just solidified his name as Human Disaster in Bucky’s book- from what would have been an unfortunate, unplanned rendezvous with the pavement below.

He landed with a loud whump and an undignified whimper. “Aw, _fuck_ ,” came the low swearing from within the confines of the dumpster.

Bucky and Steve peered over the edge.

“Actually,” Bucky said, not able to conceal the smug, amused grin that was tugging at the corners of his mouth, “down looks pretty easy. Quick, too.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Converse,” Clint bemoaned as Steve hauled him up the last flight of stairs to the top floor of the old brownstone apartment building on the corner. “No fuckin’ traction. Definitely not recommendable for free climbing. Damnit.”

He wasn’t exactly being cooperative; Bucky was half concerned that he was going to try to run off again, even with the little hobble in his step accompanied by an ancomfortable wince whenever he put too much weight on his right knee. Steve kept a hold on him, though whether it was to help keep him upright after his tumble into the dumpster or to prevent him from attempting to ditch them, Bucky couldn’t be sure.

They had just managed to haul Clint out of the dumpster and away from the scene of the incident, where the four thugs were still in various stages of stirring and trying to crawl away, as police sirens were coming down the avenue. It couldn’t have been helped- at least a few people probably saw or heard the scuffle in the alley.

In regards to which, Bucky expected some serious explaining. He didn’t like beating up guys who, beside pulling out guns on him (well, not really at _him_ , not at first, but he was there), didn’t do anything to him that immediately merited that type of violence.

“Am I being kidnapped?” Clint asked, hobbling slightly as he was practically dragged along, Steve still keeping hold of his one elbow as Bucky grabbing his other arm by the bicep to speed him along down the hallway. “Is this what this is? Did Natasha put you up to it? I wouldn’t expect this from you Steve, but your pal here isn’t very nice-”

“Does he ever shut up?” Bucky asked Steve this time before sending a sidelong glare at Clint.

“Cool it, Angry Eyes,” Clint said. “I don’t care how much you scowl at me or how many tracksuit draculas you beat up or much leather you wear- which, admittedly is a good look on you, just sayin’-” he shrugged, “you do not scare me and I will not go silently, if I _am_ being kidnapped.”

“Which door is yours, Clint?” Steve asked

“Um, not completely sure actually, I usually come in from the fire escape, so… hold on, that one,” he declared, nodding toward the last door on the right. “As I was saying, will not go silently. Also I’m pretty sure Nat doesn’t want me dead, and if you were gonna kill me you’d have left me in that dumpster along with the corpse of my last shred of dignity, so I’m not exactly concerned.”

Bucky let out a slow, measured breath, mentally counting to ten. “Serious. Just one freaking minute. Shut the hell up.”

“Make me,” Clint challenged with a grin and an eyebrow wiggle. Steve choked on a poorly withheld laugh as Bucky groaned in pain.

Clint dug his keys out of his pocket and opened the door. Abandoning his charge, Bucky pushed past them through the doorway, scanning the merged kitchen and living room space the door opened into. When they were all inside, Bucky locked the door behind them. Steve followed Clint into the kitchen as Bucky started a cursory sweep of the apartment, just making sure they were alone. He was, needless to say, a little on edge.

When he rounded the corner back to the main room, satisfied everything was as secure as he could hope for, Clint ran smack into his chest with a startled sound.

“Oh, wow, muscles, okay,” Clint said, blinking as he stumbled back, reorienting himself. He flopped down on the couch, dropping a bag of frozen peas he’d been carrying onto his knee.

Bucky found himself increasingly questioning how the hell this guy was even real, much less somebody Steve wanted on a team, _much less_ somebody Natasha would care about or even tolerate.

Steve was standing to the side at the counter, brewing a fresh pot of coffee. Bucky elected to ignore the new guy, who apparently did not have any sort of filter between his rambling train of thought and his mouth, and went to lean against the countertop beside Steve.

“Clint, if you were ever going to explain what happened back there, now would be a good time,” Steve reminded him, his tone ever patient as he stood there, waiting for the coffee pot to fill.

“It’s complicated,” he sighed. For once he didn’t seem inclined to comment further.

“Well why don’t you try to _uncomplicate_ it,” Bucky suggested, crossing his arms and leveling an even more displeased look that usual at Clint, who offered him a weak, apologetic smile, almost upside down from where his head was tilted back over the armrest of the couch.

“If you insist… here’s the short version,” Clint said with a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. He took a deep breath and launched into his narrative. “A long while back I rented this apartment because the guys who owned the building didn’t ask many questions as long as you had the cash up front and because of their own business interests they weren’t a fan of the police either which was great. Back then I wasn’t here very often because _business_ you know,” he said like Bucky was supposed to know what that entailed but Steve just nodded knowingly, “but about a year ago I took up more permanent residency because _I’m retired Steve_ but the point is I kinda got to know the people here and I know, I know, I broke rule number one of the job- don’t get personally invested, be able to walk away- but that wasn’t a problem until the owners started forcing people out,” Clint explained.

He sat up straight now, adjusting the frozen-peas-turned-ice-pack and talking more animatedly with his hands. This may have been the short version but Bucky got the feeling he was just getting started.

“Anyway none of it was koscher- I mean, I’m talking the mysteriously losing people’s checks for last month’s rent and coming by just after people’s kinds got back from school with a baseball bat kind of not legal stuff. People’s _kids_ , Steve. And then throwing all their stuff out on the street corner.” Clint shook his head disapprovingly. “Not like I can just call up the cops though, so I’m like, well, easiest solution would be to just buy the building right?”

He looked at them like they were supposed to agree with him that of course that would be the natural course of action. Bucky looked dumbly over at Steve, whose eyebrows almost hit his hairline. Jesus fucking Christ, this guy.

“Problem is though, I _quickly_ learned they were _not_ interested in selling, cause they had other plan for the block. So, uh, things escalated, and push came to shove and all that, and in the end I sorta just barged in and threw a bag of money on the table and didn’t give ‘em much of a choice about signing the deed over. Legally? Mine now. If they were so inclined to get the courts involved, nothin’ they can do about it now. So I let everyone get their homes back and you’d think my problem’s solved right?” he looked between Steve and Bucky, expecting a response. “Right?”

“Right,” Steve drawled out, not quite sure where this was going except somehow to being chased down the avenue by four armed assailants.

“Wrong,” Clint corrected. “They put a price on my head. On _my head_ ,” he declared, more indignant and personally offended at the very idea than anything. Bucky got to thinking this guy had a really warped sense of self preservation. “ You know I had to find this out from Frank? Frank Castle. Guy gave me a call outta the blue to tell me. I know all guys who would consider this sort of thing, right? Or they know me. Or they know Natasha. _That’s_ really the point when Natasha started sticking around more, trying to pull me back into this job or that. Think she just wanted me out of here- ‘more trouble that the place is worth’ she called it- but no way in hell I’m giving this place up that easy.”

The coffee was done by now, and Steve found three mugs and poured, passing them around. Clint nodded his thanks and interrupted his story long enough to take a few sips of the scalding liquid.

Steve used the pause to interject, “Who exactly is this ‘they’ you keep talking about? Your previous landlords?”

“Oh, yeah, turns out the building was basically owned by this Russian mafia-”

“You conducted a _hostile takeover on the Russian mafia_ , are you crazy?” Bucky asked, so incredulous it wasn’t even a question but a condemnation on Clint’s sanity.

“Not _the_ Russian mafia. They’re not the Bratva, Jesus. No, just a sort of local mob thing, that just _happens_ to be a bunch of angry, gun and baseball bat wielding Russians,” Clint explained, waiving it off like that made it okay. “Anyway, Nat helped me sort out the little hit order on me thing before they could try to import foreign talent- that got a little messy- and while I feel like we’ve mostly come to an arrangement that I’ll stay out of their business if they stay away from me and my neighborhood, some of the rules must be a little hazy still because they still like to occasionally try to throw me into unmarked vans or chase me into alleys with semi-automatic hand cannons but that’s fine. I can deal with that.”

A silent minute passed as he let them soak all of that in. It was... a lot of information.

“You, ah,” Steve said, starting and stopping like he had no idea what to say. “You’re telling me you just…”

Clint nodded. “Yep.”

“You just went and…”

“Uh-huh. That’s about the jist of it.” Clint shrugged again.

“Do they- Do the Russians know who you are?” Steve asked, no less doubtfully.

“What? Are you serious? No way. No way _in hell_ . Did you hear about the kind of trouble Banner got stuck in recently? You know how easy it is to blackmail somebody nowadays? Or, ‘hey Clint, go rob First Republic Bank for us- we heard that was your thing. Oh, you don’t do that anymore? Well, too bad, maybe shoving this fucking gun in your face or killing random people off your block will change your mind.’ Ha. Very funny Steve. You know, there are reasons that I’ve always gone to such lengths to fly _under_ the radar.” Shaking his head still, Clint leaned further back into the couch, kicking his shoes off and sitting cross legged on the lumpy cushion as he stared down into his mug of coffee. He suddenly looked very tired.

Bucky kept filing these little bits of information away, slowly creating a complete portfolio on this guy based on everything he’d seen and heard and what Steve had told him, which in total wasn’t a whole lot.

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Steve was saying. “I was just asking, not making a recommendation."

“Yeah, I should hope so,” Clint muttered. “But I think that’s enough about me. I’d still kind of like to know who Angry Eyes over here is and if he’s planning on killing me, because it looks like he’s been thinkin’ about it.” He blinked at Bucky expectantly.

“Clint,” Steve began with formal introductions, motioning to Bucky, “James Barnes. B-”

“Ohhh,” Clint blurted out, elongating the syllable far past what was necessary as the thought just occurred to him. “You’re Steve’s friend. You’re _that_ guy,” he said, trying to connect the dots in his head as he searched for the words, pointing at Bucky. “The- you’re Bucky. That’s it.”

“Friends call me that,” Bucky agreed, stressing the ‘friends’ part, not that Clint seemed to notice.

“Right, cool, well, Clint Barton,” he said, formally yet redundantly introducing himself. “A couple better known aliases. Hawkeye, in some circles. Allegedly,” he added. “Nobody’s _proved_ anything.” He stuck his hand out to Bucky to shake. “At your service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now you've had a taste of the idea. 
> 
> I've got another chapter and a bit written, unedited thought, not that I edited the above much (so I apologize for typos and annoying errors). If I continue with this however it's going to be a very lengthy, very time consuming monster. It's going to be a whole lotta winterhawk and evading the law shenanigans and it will be lovely.
> 
> But... (and it's a big but) I'm going to need lots of cheerleading and motivation along the way because I I'm heading into another difficult semester and I never have a lot of time to write and I need motivational assistance to keep me on track.
> 
> Hmu with kudos and with comments if you'd like to see more.


	3. Stage 2: best laid plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to SO MANY OF YOU OMG for commenting about the fic and encouraging me to post more. Seriously, while it's been slow to pick up hits (it's pretty niche, I'll give it that), I've never gotten so many subscriptions, kudos, comments, and bookmarks after just two weeks of posting. So thanks you all so much <3 
> 
> That isn't however to say that the job's done yet. This thing's just getting off the ground. You all want more? Tell me. Gimme that motivation. 
> 
> I also got a question about my posting schedule. LOL. Yeah, wish I had one of those. My goal is to update every two or three weeks, but some weeks are busier, some slower, and these chapters are hella long. It's a labor of love. 
> 
> Now please enjoy these two fools getting to know each other and the gang diving into the heist.

Bucky yanked Steve aside in the corner of the small kitchen when Clint excused himself momentarily, waving off-handedly and muttering something about double checking locks on the door and windows. Given there were tracksuited Russian mobsters out to get him, that was probably wise.

“Hawkeye?” he mouthed to Steve. “Seriously?”    

“Yeah,” Steve said, shrugging and giving Bucky a look like he was overreacting. He kept his voice low. “You  _ have  _ heard of-”

“Of course I’ve heard of him, I just never thought he was  _ real _ \- that everything he’s credited with was done by one person,” Bucky admitted. He looked back at the empty mouth of the hallway Clint had disappeared into. “Seriously? That’s Hawkeye?”

“Yes Bucky,” Steve said. “That’s him. Regardless of whatever you’ve heard, he’s a friend and we trust him- mostly,” Steve added- “ and he’s very good at what he does. So please remember what we came here to do.”

“He’s also retired,” Bucky pointed out.

“That’s what you said, too.”

“I am. I’m just here so you’ll get off my case.”

“Didn’t seem like that earlier,” Steve said smugly, looking oddly pleased with himself. “You handled yourself fine with those four guys.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I never said I couldn’t handle myself anymore,  _ Steven _ . He rolled his eyes. “I’m just done with all of this too risky, too illegal stuff you keep trying to drag me into.”

Steve snorted a laugh, looking at him in disbelief. “Don’t you try and spin yourself into the law abiding citizen now James Buchanan Barnes. You never had a problem flouting it before.”

“Well, a lot’s changed,” Bucky huffed.

“No it hasn’t.”

“Then I have,” he snapped. Bucky crossed his arms and turned away from Steve dismissively, leaning against the wall too casually, eyes fixed determinedly on some distant point of space. 

“The cold shoulder now?” Steve bagan to ask, but he didn’t have time to start an argument.

Clint came back around the corner, making straight for the coffeemaker and refilling his mug. 

“I miss something?” he asked, tone clearly bored, but his eyes flickering between them curiously.

At that point, as Bucky examined him closely for the first time (as potentially someone other than a weird even if oddly likeable rando he and Steve had literally fished out of a dumpster) that he noticed the flash of purple plastic behind Clint’s ears. His mind immediately jumped to comms, to tactical communication equipment of various sorts, to who he would have been communicating with…  but a second later and Bucky had pushed those concerns out of mind. 

They were hearing aids. More pieces to the puzzle that Bucky had begun to put together. This guy kept getting more interesting.

“Nope,” Steve said, stepping back toward the living room and taking a seat in an armchair that had seen better days. “Just discussing your current retirement plan.”

“Oh, here we go again,” he groaned, setting the pot of coffee down with a little too much force. “You know, I get this enough from Natasha.”

“Look, I’m not going to try and force you to do anything you don’t want-” Steve began to say placatingly, but Clint cut him off with a harsh laugh.

“Ha, what a  _ relief _ then, Steve,” he snapped, his words laced with… something like sarcasm, but more sour. Bucky was- not surprised, per say, but very aware at least- of the sudden change in his entire demeanor. There was subtle tension in every line of him, like a drawn bow. Not aggressive, more like he recoiled at the words. While Bucky was still mentally cataloging the shifting details of his composure, he muttered bitterly, not looking up from the mug on the counter, “Because we all know how that goes.”

“Clint,” Steve tried to reason, sounding pained. “That’s-”

He just shook his head. “Forget it.” Looking at his coffee with a sour expression now, he slid it away toward the sink.

“Clint that’s not what I meant and you know it,” Steve tried again, more forcefully as he stood up and stepped closer before seeming to think better of it and stopping. Still, there was something beseeching in his tone. 

“I know what you meant,” Clint said, just tired this time. “I’m retired. I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it again if I have to. Now just…” He waved his hand dismissively toward the door. “Go on an’ fuck off.” 

“It’s been over a year, Clint,” Steve said, trying to rationalize it. It was never like him to drop the argument anyway. “We need you back-”

Problem was, Bucky knew, Steve didn’t quite seem to recognize that he couldn’t always rationalize the anger away. And while Bucky had no confirmed idea of why, or what happened to drive him into early self-declared retirement, this guy, Clint, was angry. It was weird he was just seeing that now, through everything else.

“How about what  _ I  _ need, Rogers?” Clint sighed, laughing humorlessly and looking up to the ceiling in search of patience. He took a breath. Steve winced, looking guilty. “Retired,” he said, deadpan. “Do I have to spell it out?”

Steve stood there for a moment, looking for the words. 

Despite the cold shoulder and his previously declared office of unwilling bystander, Bucky couldn’t help but jump in. “Yeah, keep saying it buddy. He didn’t listen to me when I said it either.”

Clint pivoted to look critically at him. “I still don’t know why you’re here, Barnes.  I don’t even know you. But I’m sure you’ve heard plenty of the stories floating around about  _ me  _ now.” 

Bucky was a little confused as to what he meant by that. He wasn't boasting. That wasn’t boastful. Self-deprecating, and regretful, maybe. Not boastful.

“Nobody is telling stories about what happened, Clint,” Steve jumped back in, suddenly defensive. “The few people who  _ do _ know recognize that it really fucking sucks, okay? That it’s awful, and not your fault, and that it could have happened to any of us.” Steve planted his feet, arms crossed with a stony expression on his face that said he wasn’t going to budge on that argument.

Clint snorted, shrugging it off, but for as much as he looked pissed and bored and tired all at once, he also looked like he was trying and failing at hiding just how uncomfortable he was with the direction the conversation was taking. Like this was the last thing he wanted to be talking about. Jittery and breathing just a little too quickly. Hell, the way he angled himself and kept eyeing his exits made Bucky realize they basically had him backed into a corner. He’d be a little panicky too. 

Bucky kept an indirect cautious eye on him. This was, after all, the guy that attempted to parkour over a seven story building to get away from his problems. He made it pretty far, too. He decided that, despite all of Steve’s best intentions, de-escalation was not Steve’s strong suit. It was however a not insignificant part of what Bucky did for a living. Or at least, what he used to do.

He picked up the mug of coffee that he had lost interest in a few tense minutes ago and meandered over into the carpeted living room, taking a seat on the far side of the couch. “So, Barton,” Bucky started, a complete change of topic and tone. Somewhere between entirely disinterested and maybe a little curious. “‘The amazing Hawkeye’ everybody says,” he laughed, and Clint just blinked at him. “Straight up, the Zanzibar job, that really you? Of course, hypothetically, allegedly, admitting to nothing and all that jazz,” Bucky waived dismissively. 

Clint looked a little taken aback. He hesitated a minute. “Uh, yeah,” he said cautiously, unsure where the sudden interest on Bucky’s part was coming from.

Bucky hummed, considering that. “Grappling hooks?” he asked incredulously, smirking. “For real?”

Clint looked a little taken aback, almost offended. “You try scaling a hundred foot vertical glass surface without ‘em and tell me how it goes.”

He raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly, impressed. “You went in over the symposium? Okay, point taken. Nairobi in ‘09? Also you?”

“Yeah,” he said with less hesitation, though he remained suspicious.

“It true you only got out clean ‘cause you managed to pull off a Purple Hustle with nothin’ but what was in a janitor’s closet?

“I invented the Purple Hustle and I think you know that,” Clint said, narrowing his eyes at him.  “I see what you’re doing-”

“Montenegro Pink Diamond Heist?”

“Yes. That too. Flattery won’t make me-”

“Actually I thought you messed up big time with the drop point there. The port? Really? One vacation cruise liner comes through there and you’re getaway is fucked.” 

“Excuse the fuck outta you?” Clint asked, suddenly taken aback. “Or you might consider that thousands of tourists might help a guy blend in and escape the feds that were coming down on my head.”

“Nah, you got lucky is all,” Bucky said decidedly.

“Look here buddy, you can take you condescending bullshit-”

“London, Cleopatra Exhibit at the National Gallery, how did you get past the light grid and motion sensors? I never could figure that one out.”

Clint sighed, frustrated. “I didn’t. Took it in transport three days earlier. Museum delayed announcing it while the cops investigated. They changed the story for the newspapers a bit. Not my best strategy actually. Should’ve gone with an Empty Carriage, or something.”

“Or something,” Bucky repeated, amused. “Still impressive execution though,” he admitted, inclining his head. “Recon and research alone probably took months, right?”

Steve laughed dryly, like he knew something Bucky didn’t, and Clint sent him a sharp look. “Should’ve taken months. Natasha told me about that one.”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve,” Clint said, glaring. “I was on the clock.”

“Self-imposed clock, maybe,” Steve said, turning to Bucky. “He made a stupid bet a week before and winged it, just to prove he could.”

“Well I guess I could then, couldn’t I,” Clint retorted. “Give me a fucking break. In my own goddamn house, too.”

“Look, guys,” Bucky said, deliberately and with a bored expression on his face. “I’ll cut to the chase. If this is gonna end in a fight please let me know now because I’ll have a flight to book.”

Steve looked like he was going to say something but Bucky cut him off with a pointed look.

“Or,” he suggested, “if we can just calm down and quit with the sass and the sarcasm, Steve’s got a business proposition to share.” He looked warningly at the other man before he could interrupt. “Barton, just hear him out,” he asked, adding “please,” because the guy seemed to have something of a sore spot regarding people telling him what to do. “After that, choice is up to you.” Bucky paused a moment, looking between the two men questioningly. “Sound good?”

Steve looked to Clint, silent.

Clint took a long moment, glaring down at the floor as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Finally he sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a moment. “Fine,” he relented. “Fine.”

“Great,” Bucky said. “Now everybody take a fuckin’ seat. And try not to laugh when he gets to the part about rappelling.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“I’ve got a couple questions,” Clint said, having been frowning quietly as he listened intently to Steve for the past fifteen or twenty minutes. 

“Some of the wrinkles still have to be ironed out- and I’m hoping you’ll be at the meeting this Friday to discuss the details and make necessary edits- but I’ll answer what I can,” Steve said amenably enough.

“Okay, well first of all,” Clint said, beginning to count off his fingers, “what the hell kind of half baked, half assed, goddamn  _ idiotic- _ ”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve groaned, but Clint kept on going.

“-bullshit scented, dumbass flavored, ignorantly hopeful, inbred-”

Bucky choked on his laughter, biting his tongue and giving maintaining a straight face his best, genuine effort.

“-physics defying, coma inducing, brainless fucking suicidal plan is that? I am… speechless,” Clint said, shaking his head. “Fucking speechless.”

“Well apparently not,” Bucky muttered covering a smirk, before of course he remembered he was supposed to be pacifying and de-escalating. “I mean, you could go on with the insults, it’s very amusing, or we could be adults about it.”

“Please,” Steve added, sinking back in his chair and looking like he was regretting decisions that led him there.

“Oh, I’ve got other questions,” Clint assured them. “Who the hell came up with this thing and who the hell agreed to it?”

“Sam Wilson- you haven’t met him yet- and I started forming the bare bones of it. It is a  _ rough  _ draft, Clint. Very rough, I know, but workable,” he stressed. “And so far Sam and I, Tony, Thor, Bruce, and Natasha have agreed to be there Friday,” Steve explained.

“I can’t help but notice that he’s not on your guest list,” Clint said, nodding to Bucky.

“Well, that’s a bit complicated it seems,” Bucky said. “It was an accident.”

Steve rubbed at his temples like he had a headache. “Bucky agreed to attend if Natasha does, in some weird display of trust in her ability to determine a good opportunity from a bad one-”

“No, no, I get that,” Clint said nodding almost absentmindedly.

“And Natasha agreed to be at the info meeting because she thinks it’s got potential and she trusts me, which you could maybe learn something from,” Steve added, giving Clint a look, but he just rolled his eyes. “So Bucky will be there.”

“Wait, that’s not all,” Bucky corrected, giving Steve a pointed look.

“Right, so while Natasha will be there, it seems she won’t actually stay on board unless you show up, Clint,” Steve continued. “So because he’s an asshole he’s now insisting that his deal won’t count unless Natasha stays invested. So,” Steve rounded it out, “Bucky going depends on whether Natasha stays, and Natasha staying depends on whether you go, and you going depends on whether you’re done entertaining yourself with local Russian thugs and are ready to jump back in the ring with us alleged international criminal types. Clear?”

Clint blinked at them a couple times, confusion written all over his face. “Did you get these contracts in writing?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Steve sighed heavily as the front door to the brownstone swung closed behind them. “Well, that didn’t go well,” he admitted, feeling more than a little guilty.

“Could have gone better, yeah,” Bucky agreed.

“My fault, almost entirely. I don’t know, I went in too strong on the sales pitch. Probably didn’t sound too… considerate,” he decided, finding the right word, “from his end.”

“Probably, yeah,” Bucky nodded, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.

“I appreciate you trying, Buck. I really do. I know you didn’t want to be here and you had no reason to try and get him on board, but, I appreciate it,” Steve said with a grateful smile. 

Bucky shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Damn shame. I don’t even know if it’s salvageable now.”

Bucky looked at him confused. “What do you mean?”

“Well, everything about this job depends on timing and detail, with so many moving parts that if one person stumbles, we all feel it. And Clint was right about one thing: the consequences to stumbling would not be good. We need a thief,” Steve said, having the good sense to keep his voice down, “and I don’t think any of us knows a better one. And then, without him, Nat’s out too. She’s out and so are you. That’s three down. But hell, to work, we have to keep it in house anyway. No time to build a rapport with anyone new, and can’t risk someone we don’t know or haven’t worked with before. So that might be the end of it.”

Bucky laughed, shaking his head. “What the hell are you talking about, Steve? He’ll be there Friday. I can’t say whether he’ll stick around in the end, but the game’s not up yet.”

Steve looked at him, utterly confused. “Uh, Buck, were you sitting in on the same conversation that I was? Because he was pretty damn adamant that he did not like this at all. Not interested, in the slightest.”

“Yeah, Steve, he might think that now, but he’s  _ interested _ . Trust me. Barton’s been entertaining himself with this Russian mafia nonsense for over a year now, putting whatever the hell happened on the job-” He held up a hand to preemptively stop Steve. “And I really don’t need to know- behind him. But this,” he shook his head, grinning. “Like waving heroin in front of an addict. Trust me,” he repeated. “The guy’s hooked.”

Steve slowed to a stop, standing at the corner as they waited for the light. “You really think so?”

“Steve, did you even see his face when you started going over the details? You could basically  _ see _ the gears turning as he ran through it all in his head. You think he would’ve insulted it so strongly if he weren’t thinkin’ up ways to do it  _ better _ ?” Bucky gave Steve a look that had ‘admit it, I’m right’ written all over it.

Steve shrugged, but he still didn’t look sold. “You’re sure?”

“More sure about it than a lot of things.”

Steve sighed, the two of them hurrying across the street before the light turned. “So I guess you’ll hold off on booking that plane ticket out of here?”

“You staying?” Bucky asked.

“Well, I didn’t just sign a three week sublease on an apartment in Brooklyn Heights for nothing,” Steve quipped. “Cost of living in this city is expensive you know.”

Bucky made a show of debating it, see-sawing his hand as he weighed the pros and cons a half dozen different ways before Steve laughed and jabbed at his ribs. That didn’t stop the two of them from breaking out into stupid smiles regardless.

“Yeah, guess I’ll stick around, punk” Bucky acquiesced. “At least ‘till Friday.”

“Alright,” Steve said, hands up in surrender. “I’ll hold you to that, jerk.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Friday couldn’t roll around fast enough. 

Bucky didn’t care for the city. Boston wasn’t all that different, but at least he had his own place and the quiet and solitude that came with it. Sure, Brooklyn used to be the closest thing to what he was willing to call a home. Key words:  _ used to _ . Now, to him, it was just an unruly, disorganized cluster of people and buildings and loud noises. It didn’t matter that the city itself hadn’t changed. Spend too long in the middle of it and he just got jumpy, never quite able to find his resting heart rate, while always finding himself keeping track of the nearest exit.

For a while that just meant he’d retreat into Steve’s guest room and hide away for a couple hours until it passed. But once their guests began arriving that evening, not even Steve’s spacious new apartment could stave off the creeping sense of unease and claustrophobia leering over his shoulder.

He got to thinking more and more that Friday would be his last day in that damn city. 

First came Stark, who Bucky had met before, even- well, there had been a thing, something they were on different sides of, something that didn’t end with them on the best of terms, but that was water under the bridge and all that. He was dragging along Dr. Banner, who he hadn’t met. Tony was loud and liked the sound of his own voice, and so for a relatively little guy he managed to take up a whole lot more space than should’ve been possible. Banner- just Bruce, he insisted- was soft spoken and polite, more ready to listen than to speak himself. Bucky liked him well enough. 

Sam Wilson came next. Bucky knew him. Steve had seemed intent on forcing some sort of friendship to exist between them for the longest damn time, and for the most part they humored him. Hell, maybe they could be friends. Maybe. It wasn’t like Bucky could put his finger on exactly  _ why _ , but something about the guy tended to rub him the wrong way. Steve said it was because they were too similar. Bucky thought that Steve could shove it.

By then it seemed like the whole apartment- too big and with too many private bedrooms to properly be called a studio apartment, but almost just as open, with high ceilings and massive windows, was vibrating with noise and energy that Bucky was just not willing to keep up with. He spent most his time sitting by the police scanner on the kitchen counter, monitoring it for anything they wouldn’t like. Steve told him to quit brooding in the corner and to get his ass out there and make nice. Bucky again thought about telling him to shove it, but instead snapped that checking in every once in a while for a police raid seemed more important.

Steve buzzed in Thor next. Bucky hadn’t met him either but from everything he’d heard he was a standup guy and his first impression upon introduction was fine. He didn’t talk to him long though. 

Bucky stepped out of the apartment for a break. Some fresh air. Unfortunately the roof wasn’t accessible, so the street it was. 

Bucky shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, hunching his shoulders against the chill wind as he pushed out the front doors of the apartment building.

Brooklyn Heights was more Steve’s type of place than his. It was gentrified, upper class, the type of place moms went jogging with baby strollers in the morning and attended PTA meetings in the afternoon. The type of place where their CFO husbands rolled out in their Audis and Rolls-Royces at 6 AM sharp to make it to work in Manhattan on time. It meant the sidewalks were wide and the alleys were well lit though, even though the sun went down almost an hour ago.

He made it a block down before stopping in the mouth of a narrow pathway, not even a proper alley, between two buildings. Leaning against the corner, the rough brick catching on his jacket, he inhaled deeply, itching for a cigarette as he counted a few minutes go by. He’d mostly kicked the old habit, indulging about once a month tops, but in the past few months he’d gotten admittedly worse about it.

“James.” The smooth voice came by way of greeting, low and pleasant. Still, Natasha always had a predatory undertone about her. 

He stayed where he was, shoulder blades pressed against the bricks behind him. He didn’t jump at the sound, which he was grateful for, though he did turn his head back toward the sidewalk to face her. 

“Natasha.”

She wore a black pea coat, dark jeans, white blouse, black boots, her hair billowing gently about her face in the breeze as she stood still in the middle of the empty sidewalk. Simple, elegant, perfectly attuned to the city, ultimately forgettable. She would be there tonight, but could’ve never been there at all.

“Isn’t the party inside?” she asked, her expression neutral.

“You’d think so,” he said, serious. “But I’m having a lot more fun out here.”

She looked him up and down for a moment. She didn’t even have to say anything else. The look she gave him said it all.

He rolled his eyes, relenting. “I’m hiding from Steve. Just for a minute. I’m fine.”

Blinking mutely, she considered that. “Everyone here already?” she asked, evidently letting it go and moving on.

“Almost. Steve and Sam, Tony, Bruce, Thor a couple minutes ago, me, though I don’t know why, and now you,” he listed off. 

Her mouth went tight for a second. “Is that all.” It wasn’t really a question.

“Barton will show.”

She cocked her head at him. “You’re sure of that, are you?” There was no question of if they’d met, how it had gone, how he knew or what they’d said to each other- Natasha never asked an arbitrary question, nor a question she didn’t know the answer to. He wasn’t sure which this was.

“Yeah, just about.” He maintained easy eye contact, resisted shuddering or tensing as a stronger, cold wind whipped down the street. 

Whatever challenge she had put him to, however she was sizing him up- and he never knew with her, given she always had at least two alterior plans and motives- apparently she was satisfied, and he had passed. 

“Good,” she declared. “I’ll see you inside.”

With that, she continued her stride forward, past the corner, and disappeared from his field of view. 

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, though she was long out of earshot. He took another measured breath, releasing it slowly. He was in no hurry.

Bucky was content to let the minutes tick by. It wasn’t quite simply procrastinating and holding back the inevitable point when he would have to go back inside the crowded room and deal with everyone. It was more like catching his breath. He was tucked out of the way in a quiet corner of the city, and for the first time in a week he felt like he was reigning control of his nerves back in. He just needed a minute. 

He had this. 

Checking his watch, it was a quarter past nine, meaning some twenty minutes had already passed. Steve was touchy about timing though, and the meeting was arranged for nine, so he was late enough as it was.

As he walked back up the block toward Steve’s building however, he found himself stopping in his tracks about a dozen yards out and, without thinking, slinking a little closer to the shadow of the building. After the seconds it took him to realize what he was looking at, he couldn’t help the smirk that curled the edges of his mouth into a sharp, pleased smirk. 

It came with the smug sense of satisfaction at being right.

Clint Barton was sitting on the edge of the ornamental stone railing that rimmed that shallow set of stairs up to the front doors of the foyer of Steve’s building. He was hunched over the edge, elbows on his knees, alternating between staring at the door and down at his hands he was wringing in his lap. He didn’t know that Bucky was there, or at least, he didn’t give any indication of it.

He  _ was  _ happy about being right in how he’d judged Clint’s interest in Steve’s proposition. It also meant he had saved face with Natasha, having just assured her the guy would be there. But, there was also a tiny part of him, barely loud enough to be heard, that was saying he was glad to get a second face-to-face with this disaster of a (sometimes) athletically impressive, subtly actually pretty attractive (not that it was the reason he’d caught Bucky’s interest, because he wasn’t interested like that- he  _ wasn’t _ ), apparently internationally infamous yet entirely mysterious criminal. 

Bucky didn’t get him. There was something there to get though, clearly. And, maybe he liked the puzzle. He’d figure it out eventually. Again, there was no hurry.

He decided to exploit his momentary advantage of invisibility to the fullest. It was then upon closer examination that, even from a distance and in the dark, Bucky got the sense Clint looked a hell of a lot more conflicted than he would’ve allowed himself to look if he knew someone were watching. 

So there it was. The veil slipping. 

Bucky was good at reading people. He was always good, but as in many things, practice made him better. From his stint in the army with an interrogation task force, from his less-official job afterward, from Natasha… he’d gotten plenty of it. So with most people it was easy to put the pieces together. There was the facade they put up and the real person underneath. If they were good, like Natasha, they had so many interchangeable facades and faces all layered up that the real person got buried.

But with Clint, he couldn’t tell which was real. 

That was new.

However there wasn’t much else to do standing there unannounced while Clint chewed his bottom lip looking like a lost, kicked puppy. So he started forward again.

When he was a few yards away, Clint’s head snapped up and he swiveled toward Bucky, leaning and shifting his weight forward as if to jump up before his eyes landed on Bucky, and he settled back again after recognizing him. A lazy grin spread across Clint’s face as he looked at Bucky with nothing short of complete confidence. 

“Angry Eyes,” he greeted pleasantly, the grin slowly growing across his face. “Always a pleasure to see nice people like you skulking around the streets at night. Alone. In dark alleys.”

Bucky smirked right back. “If it isn’t the Human Disaster.” 

Clint pulled a face. “Excuse you? First of all, uncalled for. Second of all, rude,” he counted out on his fingers.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “First time I saw you was running from Russian mobsters that you managed to piss off over a property dispute.”

“So?” Clint asked, nonplussed. “I’m sure that happens all the time.”

“You pissed them off enough to put a hit out on you.”

“An everyday occurance for plenty of people,” Clint said, shrugging. “If it weren’t, there wouldn’t be hitmen. They gotta pay the bills too, ya know.”

“And then you fell over three stories into a dumpster,” Bucky said, deadpan, and trying his best to withhold his obvious amusement.

Clint took a breath to respond, but then grimaced, shrugging in defeat. “Okay fine. But I told you it was  _ the shoes _ , man.” He pointed to his feet- in perhaps the same pair of converse, meaning he either learned nothing or just didn’t care- for emphasis. “No traction. Plus it was raining earlier. Plus you guys distracted me. Plus there were guns involved. Plus-” Bucky held up his hands to stop him. “What I’m saying is that  _ I don’t usually fall  _ okay so yes that first impression was not my best and more than a little embarrassing so if you could just forget about it that would be awesome.” He took a breath.

Bucky lost the battle to suppress the smile that curled the corners of his mouth. “Okay. I believe you. Calm down,” Bucky laughed. He finished climbing the stone steps up to the pad in front of the doors and leaned against the railing across from Clint. He returned his hands to his pockets, crossing his arms tight against the cold that was settling in.

“Good,” Clint said, nodding. “I have enough blackmail on Steve to keep him quiet about it. You were the only loose end.”

Bucky tensed involuntarily. “What sort of blackmail?”

Clint leaned back from him, slightly over the edge of the drop behind him. “Woah, woah, you’re doing the thing again, with the murdery eyes,” Clint said, pointing at Bucky and motioning a bit wildly as he spoke. “Cool your jets, Terminator. I mean like, embarrassing pictures and a good story about how Steve can’t flirt to save his life type of blackmail. Not of the incriminating nature. That would totally be not cool, dude.”

“Oh.” Bucky eased back, not completely aware of what about his facial expression changed but putting some effort into making it less “murdery” anyway. He decided to change the topic, rather than go delving into overprotective instincts regarding childhood best friends. “So what are you doing sitting around out here?”

A tight smile, less confident than before, replaced the smug grin. “Uh, a fair question. I’d tell you,” he said, shrugging, “but I’m hoping that a healthy dose of procrastination and, I don’t know, a sudden epiphany or maybe a lightning bolt or a carrier pigeon with a message from the universe will let me know  _ any _ minute now.” He shrugged again, smiled once almost apologetically, and looked away.

“So you came all the way here just to sit on your ass in the cold all night? Or were you gonna come inside?” Bucky asked. “Seems like you didn’t really think this plan through. We’re both already late by Steve’s standards.”

Clint sent him a sharp look before rolling his eyes and sighing, looking bored. Bucky should have guess by now he had a penchant for the dramatic. “Oh, wow, okay, nobody told me that you were a dick. All the pretty ones are. I should have known,” he said, somewhere between wistful and incredibly sarcastic.

Bucky laughed. “Well, I’m not really denying either of those assertions-”

“Which ones?” Clint interrupted. “For the record.”

“About being both pretty and a dick.”

“Oh, right, continue,” Clint said, trying to maintain the air of boredom but smirking unrepentantly at the same time.

“But I wasn’t being a dick right then. Sit out here, or come in. Either sound like fine options to me. Just wondering when you’ll make up your mind.” 

Clint was quiet for a minute before asking, somewhat off topic or perhaps intentionally avoiding it, “And what is it that you’re doing out here?”

“I’ve been hiding out here for the past twenty minutes to get away from ‘em. Steve especially. He means well, but he’s clingy as hell,” Bucky admitted, nonplussed. “So it’s not like I’m in any place to judge.” 

Clint looked at him blankly, mouth parted slightly like he was going to say something but he remained quiet. It was hard to read. He bit his lip loosely, and Bucky had to pull his eyes back up, only following the quick flicker of tongue for a second.

“You goin’ in?” Clint finally asked, and the bravado and faux boredom and whatever other walls he’d been cycling between were gone. 

Bucky shrugged noncommittally. “Yeah. I figure, might as well sit and listen, hear what everyone else thinks. Save decision making for later. That’s… kind of the point of this meeting, isn’t it?” Bucky pushed himself upright and turned, crossing over the three feet between where he was and the door. He could have continued, could have let the door swing shut behind him. Should have, probably. But instead he hesitated, and turned back to Clint. “Choice is yours. But you’ve gotta make it sooner or later.”

Then Bucky turned and he didn’t look back again. He let the door swing shut, took to the four flights of stairs between him and Steve’s door, and then Steve was letting him in with a disapproving look a moment later.

“Where the hell did you get off to Buck? We’ve been waiting,” Steve declared, leading him back toward the living room in the back of the apartment, where the couch and chairs had been arranged around the coffee table and facing the television, where Steve had prepared an honest to god presentation.

“Busy,” was all he barked in reply, scowling slightly. 

The rest of the room- Stark, Wilson, Thor, Bruce, and Natasha- turned back to them, but only Natasha, who glanced from him to the door and back, caught his eye. She raised an intentional eyebrow at him, a question on her face. He ignored her.

It was clear everyone did their own silent headcount, and the disappointment at arriving at only seven was less than subtle. 

“So…” Tony began, eyes flickering around between everyone else in the room for an answer, almost wincing. “Should we start?” He sounded genuinely disappointed.

Bucky held up a finger to wait, lifting his wrist to check his watch. 

“Uh-” Bucky cut anything further Tony was going to say off with a pointed glare. Tony snapped his jaw shut.

A few silent seconds ticked by, and then the sound of the apartment door opening had them all turning instinctually toward the noise. Bucky did not turn, however. He simply took a seat at the end of the couch with a quietly pleased expression on his face. 

Natasha sent him another look. This time it looked frighteningly close to something like gratitude, however. To be safe, again, he elected to ignore it.

The door shut and Clint came around the corner a few seconds later, hands in his pockets, posture slouched, doing a good show of looking disinterested. He glanced once around the room, pausing only to roll his eyes at the smug look Natasha sent his way.

“Relax, people. I’m only here for the free food. Carry on.” He dropped onto the armrest at the other end of the couch beside Natasha, perched comfortably. 

Bucky watched him from the corner of his eye.

Clint casually leaned back, sort of at an angle into the couch, his balance probably precarious though he made it look easy and comfortable enough. Natasha glanced up at him, lifting one hand and signing something brief in either letters or some sort of shorthand, though Clint just snorted and swatted her hand a away.

“Didn’t I lock that door?” Steve asked, still perplexed after having thought it over for a few seconds.

“Yeah. I locked it behind me,” Clint answered as he leaned forward to snag the bag of Doritos off the coffee table. He shoved one in his mouth with a loud crunch and divested an unnecessary amount of attention in it. He clearly wasn’t a fan of the whole room’s attention on him.

It  _ was _ a little… awkward maybe. Everybody casting glances his way, nobody saying anything, not sure if they  _ should  _ say anything to him or what it would be. Like they were scared of chasing him off with one wrong word or look.

Bucky understood what  _ that  _ was like.

If Barton had truly been firmly out of the business and in self-imposed semi-isolation for the past year and who knows how long, and they all wanted him back in, it made sense they didn’t want to spook him. 

They all knew less about Bucky though, which, for the same reason as Clint’s predicament, he was glad for.

“Alright then,” Steve was saying, and Bucky’s attention snapped back to the present. “Best get started.” He was turning on the television, picking up the remote. “So you’ve all been given the basics, that’s why you’re here, clearly. But, if you stay and hear this through, just know that you’re officially crossing the line from hypotheticals to having personal knowledge of illegal activities. I’m sure we all know that, ” Steve said, raising his voice above the sighs and mutters of ‘obviously’ and ‘on with it’ and Clint’s quiet ‘fuck da po-lice’ that had Bucky choking on air, “-but just so we’re clear, leave now or forever hold your peace.”

“You  _ have  _ swept this place for bugs right?” Tony asked, trying not to be patronizing over something so obvious, but too cautious to not be.

“Yep,” Sam responded for him. “Thoroughly. More than once.”

“And nobody’s seen anything suspicious? No large vehicles parked on the street? No new wi-fi signals? No weird clicks on the other end of the phone call? Nobody’s been followed by oddly neutrally-clothed individuals who talk into their shirt collars or their wrists?” Tony continued, looking around between the seven others.

“I’m fairly certain that if anyone  _ had _ , Tony,” Bruce said, rolling his eyes, “they would have said something about it.”

He held his hands up defensively. “Okay, okay, just-”

“Double checking, I know,” Steve finished for him, motioning for everyone to calm down. “But, if we’re all agreed-” he looked around, pausing and giving them each a chance to speak up “-let’s get started.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Veradex Incorporated, a multinational mining corporation with operations across Eastern Europe and Asia, originally pieced together from the dissolution of the Soviet Union,” Steve explained. “Company headquarters based in Vienna, Austria.”

Natasha smiled, slow and reminiscent. “I do love Vienna.”

Clint nodded, humming his agreement. “No gaming tax in Vienna. Poker capital of the world.”

“Please, can I just get through this?” Steve asked, already tired of being interrupted and already resigned to more interruption as he flipped to the next picture of a balding, pudgy man with glasses too small for him in a suit too gaudy and nonfunctional to be anything but very expensive. “The mark: current CEO and effective owner as chief stockholder of Veradex, Gerhard Vogel. Fifty-seven years old. Married to Sofia Vogel.” Another picture, of a much younger blonde woman. “Thirty. Former model. N-”

Tony snorted. “Thirty? Gross. I already don’t like the guy.”

“Shut up. No children,” Steve pressed on doggedly. “Married twice before, divorced both times. Marie Fischer-Vogel was his first, she was an executive board member with Veradex but is currently CFO with Swiss International Airlines. One kid with her, a son. Markus, a sophomore at Princeton University, little to no contact with the father except through his trust fund and a hefty share of stocks in Veradex and a handful of sister companies.”

“Gotta love a rich kid living off daddy’s money and all,” Clint piped up sarcastically, but he followed it up the genuine concern that stopped Steve from shutting him down with a snappy retort. “But this kid’s got nothin’ to do with the job, right?”

Steve shook his head. “No, of course not. Can’t promise stock in the company won’t take a hit-” he paused, reconsidering.

Sam beat him too it however. “Actually, it probably will. Stock’ll take a hit, but he’ll be fine. The trust fund is secure and managed by an uninvolved third party.” Tony gave him an odd look. “What?” he asked. “Research.”

“Anyway,” Steve continued, flipping through more pictures on the television screen, “best we can figure, Vogel split with his first wife over career differences-”

“-or traded her in for the newer model,” Sam suggested bluntly.

“Or that. But it doesn’t matter. Remember his second ex-wife though, because she’s important,” Steve said, putting a new picture of a younger, tiny woman with a wide smile in pageant apparel up on the screen. “Carmen Santos, a former Miss Cuba beauty pageant winner. That was six years ago, right around the time she and Vogel met. They were married for all of seven months before Vogel pulled the plug. There was a prenup. There was a lawsuit. It was nasty. Media got involved. There was a settlement, and she walked away with an easy two million.”

“Details?” Bucky asked. “More out of a sort of morbid curiosity than anything.” He heard Clint snort in laughter from the other side of the couch.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam picked up where Steve left off. “Plain and simple, she’s insane. Probably clinical. I mean, on the hot versus crazy scale, she seems pretty well balanced at first, but then it tipped way too far toward the crazy when she started spending Vogel’s money way faster than he liked on the drinking, clubbing, and recreational drug use. That’s not even including when she started self medicating and inviting the paparazzi along to family functions-”

“Alright, I understand the general picture,” Thor said, holding up a hand to stop Sam before he went any further. 

“Research, man,” was all Sam countered, shrugging.

“How is she relevant?” Thor asked.

“And how well did she  _ actually _ do, walking away with two million?” Bruce asked. Tony gave him an interesting look. “What? He’s the mark.”

“Santos never went far. She still navigates the European nightclub and party scene. And all sources agree she’s got the trifecta: a grudge, a loose tongue, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the who’s who of her ex’s social and business circles,” Steve explained.

Natasha hummed agreeably. “So much potential.”

“As for the money, let’s just say she could’ve done better,” Steve continued, flipping next to stock profiles and charts of Veradex’s rising profits over the past decade. “Best estimates at Vogel’s net worth hover around a hundred-thirty million.”

“Huh,” Clint said, unimpressed. He narrowed his eyes at the screen like he didn’t trust it. “I’ve seen dusty old jewelry worth more than that.” 

“Seen, or stolen,” Bucky quipped, raising an eyebrow as he met Clint’s eye. 

Clint grinned wolfishly, winking. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Quit flirting and play attention,” Natasha hissed quietly at Clint- just loud enough for Bucky to catch, though he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to- and elbowed his side,causing him to flail ungainly for a second before catching his balance on the armrest again. He frowned sulkily and crossed his arms, looking down hurriedly, but Bucky though he saw him blush faintly.

That was… interesting, Bucky decided, searching for an appropriate word for it. Interesting, and he’d leave it at that. 

“Well it isn’t exactly his liquefiable assets that we’re after,” Sam interjected.

“No. It’s not,” Steve agreed. “Our mark has invested a considerable sum over the years in tracking down and acquiring an impressive, if…  _ poorly  _ curated collection of highly valued art,” Steve explained, a sour edge to his tone.

“Oh please Steve, enlighten us poor uneducated folk about what sins this man has committed against the art community,” Bucky said seriously, concealing his amusement. 

“I bet he put the Mesopotamian pitcher next to the Greek vase. Steve always hates it when that happens,” Tony sighed, grinning broadly.

“St. Petersburg was a long time ago Tony,” Steve sighed.

“So you’re telling me you wouldn’t be upset if he put the Mesopotamian pitcher next to the Greek vase?”

Steve just rolled his eyes, looking up in search of patience. “It was one time, Tony. One time. Now if you actually want to hear about what we’re going after, shut up and listen. Please.”

To their credit, they complied. With only a few more errant remarks about Steve’s professional interests. 

The pictures changed to a series of paintings, none of them very distinct or recognizable to the non art history nerds in the room, but Bucky had learned a while ago that it probably didn’t matter. A splash of paint on the wall could apparently fetch six digits, easy. Seven if it was particularly bad. 

“Vogel has dedicated the penthouse of Veradex’s corporate headquarters in Vienna to his private collection on art and antiquities. He owns majority stock in the company, so he uses it as his personal museum. Except, it comes fully equipped with it’s own small army of private security and, from what we’ve gathered, security measures on par with some level between the Louvre and the White House. In regard to the pieces in his collection, we know he’s bought two Mondrians at auction, he’s owned a Duchamp since 1982, there’s a series of Braque sketches, a Copley still life, an original Gericault print-”

“Uh, I swear I’m not trying to interrupt,” Tony began, holding his arms up in appeasement, “and I’m sure the art is great and all, but any specifics about those security measures? The types of cameras and sensors involved? Or if it’s a closed or open loop camera feed? Whether the entire building’s servers are closed or open, actually.”

“Make and model of the safe we’re talking about?” Clint added. Tony nodded in agreement at his addition. “Or which series?”

“And then there’s what types of alarms you’re dealing with, silent alarm protocols, and police response time,” Bruce reminded them helpfully.

Steve motioned for them all to slow down, physically taking a step back and nearly into the coffee table. “I was getting there. Those are all valid concerns, and we’ll find out, but at this point, we don’t know a lot-”

“Not even like, the ‘walk in through the back door’ type of security or the ‘make a back door’ type? ” Clint asked. “The equipment I’d need for either are very different.”

Natasha glanced sideways at him. “You’re talking like you’re already in,” she said, her tone low and pleased. 

He glared at her, but it was ineffective at killing her smug smile. “Shut it. I’m just asking,” he said defensively.

Steve looked a little pained. “At this point, we have very limited technical information. We need to get our hands on the blueprints. When the safe room for the art was first installed, the entire penthouse underwent extensive remodelling. The updated blueprints for the penthouse along with the rest of the building will account for cameras and any security systems.”

“Safe room?” Clint asked, surprised. “The whole room? Are you talking like a Markoff X-7 or a full blown Hagemann MF edition?”

Steve looked to Sam for help, but Sam shook his head, keeping his hands clean of it. “Well, I don’t really know what those are, but more like a large skiff room.” 

“Oh. Okay. Sure. Probably the Hagemann then,” Clint said, nodding, but he didn’t look pleased about it.

Steve just shrugged apologetically.

“Look,” Bucky jumped in, redirecting the conversation back to something helpful, “we can do recon, clock security routines, gauge response times, and gather plenty of intel ourselves. But do you at least know  _ where _ we can find the blueprints and documents we’ll need, Steve?”

Steve perked up at that. “Yes, I do actually. That’s part of stage three.”

“There are stages?” Bucky asked, halfway to incredulous before he remembered that this was Steve he was dealing with.

“Yes. I was getting there.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Woah woah woah, wait up, hold it right there,” Clint interrupted, jumping off the armrest and beginning to pace back and forth behind the couch. “See, this is where my previous concerns about inevitable death and suicidal tendencies come in. Don’t just gloss over it, Steve.”

“So we know security is heavily armed,” Thor spoke up calmly as always amid the concern, “But we’ll need to know what type of training and protocols we’re going up against. There’s obviously a range of private security, from mall cops to mercs. It’d be helpful to know what we’re dealing with.”

“That, sure,” Clint agreed, “but see, my main problem here Steve, Sam, is that this is not what _ I do _ ,” Clint explained, forcing his voice to remain level and artificially calm, which the pacing detracted from. “Personally I’m very uncomfortable around guns, okay? I don’t break into places where people’s uniform includes semi-automatic assault rifles. I don’t-”

“Clint,” Natasha tried to slow him down before he worked himself too far up. “We’re only discussing how-”

“I don’t  _ intentionally  _ put myself in positions where people shoot first and ask questions later, okay?” he snapped. Clint shifted his weight from foot to foot minutely, hands gripping the back of the couch, and Bucky caught him glancing across the apartment toward the door and then toward the window with the fire escape for a fraction of a second.

“That seems reasonable,” Bucky agreed, shrugging. He ignored the look of betrayal that Steve shot his way. “Thoughts?”

“It seems then,” Thor suggested, “before we commit to seeing this through to the end, we gather the intel, and figure out if it’s possible and if we can do it with a reasonable degree of safety.” He glanced around to everyone else. “Agreed?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“That’s, uh, that exit strategy needs work,” Bucky muttered, not to anyone in particular. He’d heard Steve explain it before, but, still. It took a few times to really appreciate the scale of it.

“Exit aside, you want to pull off some sort of… some sort of unholy union between the Three Card Monte and the Marionette, all while the reception is going on? That’s in the span of, what, four hours?” Tony asked.

“More like five, or even six. These things tend to run long,” Bruce amended, which led to bickering about the details of the reception and the timing and feasibility of it all.

“Double Blind,” Clint said, only half listening to the argument. He had been listening closely to Steve’s explanation over the last few minutes, frowning and huffing quietly to himself occasionally as Steve went over the looser or less desirable details.

“What?” Tony asked.

“It’s-” he looked up at them, blinking. “It’s Three Card Monte and the Double Blind,” he corrected quietly. “The Marionette involves a police officer grift.”

“Wouldn’t that one be the Dallas Turnabout then?” Tony asked, confused.

“No, the Turnabout involves blackmailing the mark,” Natasha corrected. “Clint’s right, we’re talking about the Double Blind.”

“What are the details on this reception?” Bucky asked. 

“December 23rd, Veradex is hosting its annual end of year Christmas reception at the Vienna HQ for the company bigwigs, important stockholders, political and regulatory agency officials from multiple governments that the company’s playing nice with, and other VIPs,” Sam explained. “But it’s all about media attention and boosting stock. Given that it’s after company hours, security protocols will be irregular, and there’ll be plenty of unfamiliar faces in and out of the building, it’s definitely our best shot to get in and out clean.”

“Now Natasha’s cover ID makes more sense,” Tony remarked.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I should hope so. Though it may not help given this only leaves us with a little less than four months to prepare.”

“You’ve each done worse with less,” Bruce noted, seemingly unconcerned as he reached for his drink.

“Okay,” Bucky continued, trying to keep the room focused on one issue at a time. “But even if we could pull off the switch-”

“Ventilation won’t be big enough. We’ll need the elevator shafts,” Clint added, staring at the floor again and frowning. Bucky could see the gears turning in his head, thinking through the scenario.

“Right,” Bucky agreed. “Even if we’re fast enough with the switch, if we get the stuff out of the penthouse safe room, security is already scattered, and then what? How do we get them, and more importantly, us, out? And don’t tell me rappelling Steve, because we all know, that’s not gonna happen.”

A moment of heavy silence elapsed, made less awkward by drink refills and standing to stretch and pace about the room.

“What’s moves about at a black tie formal party, unquestioned, unnoticed, and with a full backstage pass?” Natasha asked from where she was still seated. The question was rhetorical. 

“What do you mean?” Steve asked.

“It’s like Bogota all over again,” she mused, thinking.

Clint swiveled to look at her, mouth pursed in a flat line and brow furrowed as he considered it. “You’re probably right about that. Forgot the first damn rule; it’s always either the ex or the butler. ”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“But speaking of preparation, this sounds like a high budget production we’re planning,” Bruce commented. He wasn’t wrong. “Travel and housing for eight people alone will be costly, not even including operational expenses. What type of funding options are we looking at?”

Tony frowned like it was obvious. “Well I could-”

“No, Tony,” Steve cut him off, knowing what he was going to suggest. “One good forensic accountant and there’s too many red flags that connect the dots right back to us. Siphoning bank accounts in the Camans takes too long to make any real cash, we don’t have time for any ponzi scheme nonsense, and we don’t need any warlords, cartels, mafias or separatist groups after us.”

“Well I wasn’t going to suggest we take it all from one place,” Tony complained, looking hurt.

“Let’s examine our options first,” Sam said. “ If we can pull together a hundred thousand-”

Clint coughed, interrupting Sam and pointing upward.

“A hundred fifty-”

Clint coughed again, louder this time, more aggressive in his pointing. 

Natasha rolled her eyes at Clint. “Three to four hundred, Sam.”

“Seriously?”

“Dude, not even counting whatever shit Tony needs, comms, documents for travel, IDs, vehicles and everything else for when we get there, do you have any idea what the type of diamond tipped industrial power drills that can get you through a titanium and lead layered safe wall go for these days?” Clint asked, genuinely surprised. “Mobile hydraulic clamps? An electronic lock bypass system? Cutting torch? An LIS biometric decoder?”

“Woah, let’s slow our roll here,” Steve jumped back in, to Sam’s aid.

“The point is,” Clint explained, “I don’t know  _ what  _ I’d need because we don’t know  _ what  _ type of security measures are in there.”

“It’s also very difficult to get these sorts of things through customs,” Natasha added. “We’d likely have to buy local, or possibly spend even more getting them imported under the radar.”

“Fury could probably get us a good deal,” Tony proposed. “Or help us move some things across borders. God knows he owes us for probably half of his business.”

“I’m pretty sure he hates me, actually,” Clint said quietly, to which Natasha shook her head with an exasperated look. Bucky raised an eyebrow at that, but the conversation moved on.

“Well, we have to talk to him anyway about moving the paintings,” Steve said. “Natasha, would you speak with him?” She nodded in agreement. “Alright, that still leaves us with the matter of funding.”

“If we pool nest eggs, I’m sure we’d get close to our goal at least,” Bucky suggested.

“Um, let’s not assume everyone has plenty of private liquid funds to share,” Tony said.

“It’d be refunded,” Bucky clarified, rolling his eyes at Tony, who of all of them likely had easiest access to quick money.

“I’m not talking about  _ me _ ,” Tony said.

“Stop it,” Steve spoke over them. “Look, we can all-” He stopped himself, distracted by what was developing into a shoving match between Natasha and Clint. “What is it?” 

She was smiling smugly, looking sidelong at Clint, but he made a point of avoiding her gaze, arms crossed. “Clint, something you’d like to say?” she asked in that sweet, harmless voice reserved for conning marks and making friends’ lives hell.

“Nope,” he said defiantly, crossing his arms tighter and leaning back comfortably. 

“Really?” she said, feigning surprise. “Because I seem to recall a rather expensive set of antique ceremonial swords going missing a few years ago. They never did show up at market...” She paused, staring at him expectantly and giving him the opportunity to speak up, but to no effect. “They’d put quite a dent in our operational costs.”

“Oh don’t tell me you’re talking about that Napoleon stuff,” Sam started, frowning at the guilty look Clint did a poor job of concealing. “That was you?” Sam blurted out, confused and surprised. “Why the hell man? I mean, ceremonial swords, seriously? I get that they’re expensive but-”

“Try a hundred fifty large a piece, jackass,” Clint muttered. “Don’t know why the hell you know so much about it if it was so insignificant.”

“Because I was one of the security consultants tasked with getting them  _ back _ , jackass.”

“Oh, well, in that case, you did a real shit job now didn’t you,” he said spitefully, looking pleased with himself.

Sam laughed. “Sure. How’d that work out for you, though? You can’t even move them if you don’t have a very specific collector in mind. Talk about a niche item.”

“I was bored one weekend and they looked cool, okay?” Clint tried to shrug off, but he crossed his arms defensively. “And yeah, fine, it was a little stupid and I had no idea what to do with them because I don’t know any fences that deal in weird antiques, plus the Feds- I’ll thank you for that -were strangely invested in getting them back, so they’re sitting in storage still. Take ‘em, I don’t care.”

“Fury deals in everything,” Bucky noted. “His net’s wide enough, he’ll find a buyer for just about anything. Why not take them to him?”

“Gosh, wow, why didn’t I think of that?” Clint said sarcastically, looking at Bucky like he’d betrayed him. “Because he would’ve reacted just like you guys did and the guy is scary, okay? Plus, like I said, I didn’t take them because I needed the money and they were too hot to move back then. But I don’t care. Take ‘em. Just fuck off about it already.” He got up and fled the uncomfortable spotlight to the kitchen, taking his mug with him and idling by the coffeemaker.

“Assuming selling those- what are they, ceremonial swords?” Steve asked, amused, and Natasha nodded.

“Something like that,” she said dismissively.

“Well assuming they get us a vast majority of the way there, can we collectively scrounge up the rest?” he asked, looking at the faces around the room.

There were some nods and shrugs and a chorus of muffled agreement. 

“Okay, that’s funding settled,” Steve checked off his mental list. “Natasha, will you take Clint and the merchandise with you when you go see Fury to get that all settled?”

Natasha considered it. “That’s fine, but I’m not moving stolen goods without an extra pair of hands. Clint doesn’t count.”

Steve glanced around the room. “Okay, any takers? Thor?”

Bucky didn’t know what possessed him to do it, really. Maybe he was just bored, looking for something interesting to do. Maybe he wanted to catch up with Natasha. Or at least, he’d tell Steve something like that when he asked. “Actually I’ve got it, Steve,” he said, glancing once over at Natasha and then back toward the kitchen before meeting Steve’s eyes. 

“Really?” Steve asked, taken by surprise, a little bit like Bucky felt.

“Yep. Sounds fun.” 


	4. Stage 3: making arrangements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a liiiiiittle bit later than I intended, sorry about that, but there's a lot going on here :) so I hope :))) that you like it :))))))

The jointed sheet metal of the door rattled something terrible. It echoed around the cavernous dark of the warehouse as Bucky forced the old chain and pulley to cooperate, lowering the patchwork of rust and graffiti to the cracked concrete floor behind them after Natasha killed the car’s ignition. 

Clint hopped out of the back seat, closing the door behind him with a jarring thud. He paused, turning a slow circle and craning his head back to fully appreciate the decaying industrial building, out of commission since the second World War.

“Damn,” Clint declared, more impressed than anything. “Fury knows how to pick ‘em.”

“This is the address he gave you?” Bucky asked as Natasha got out of the vehicle.  “You sure?” The look she sent him over her shoulder was a sufficient answer. He threw his hands up in surrender, backing away as he walked around the car to the trunk. “I only met the guy once or twice, but he seemed, I dunno, classier. That’s all.”

“Nope. No,” Clint mused, still peering around at the dark rafters and corners, only illuminated by a few beams of light from where the ceiling was rusted away and where the clouded, dust covered windows set high in the walls were broken. “This is... right up his alley. It’s got a very, uh-” He cut himself off, snapping his head around to face where a sudden dull fluttering and thrumming sound- pigeons probably- broke the otherwise eerie silence. “A very Saw _ ,  _ horror movie vibe to it.”

“Really?” Bucky asked, lifting the trunk. “I was thinking it had more of a Hannibal Lecter thing going on.”

Clint perked up at that, turning to face Bucky like he was sizing him up for a moment, a smirk half drawn across his lips. “Original or sequel?” 

Bucky snorted at the question, straightening up to look at him over the lid of the trunk. “1991 Silence of the Lambs, clearly. That shouldn’t even be a question.”

Apparently he answered correctly, though. The half-smirk developed into a full fledged bright smile. It caught Bucky a little off guard. 

“Good. I was gonna steal your wallet if you said one of the sequels. Those were garbage.” 

Bucky frowned, eyes narrowed at him. “You were wha-”

“Unless your plan is to wait here all day...” Natasha’s voice rang out from surprisingly far away. They both turned, finding her on almost the other side of the warehouse, standing in the open from of small service door tucked away against the wall. “This way, boys. Bring the merchandise.”

She disappeared through the door.

“Natasha, wait!” Clint called out, jogging after her. “Splitting up is really not advisable- don’t you know that’s the best way to get axe-murdered in these types of situations?” He was already at the door, peering cautiously around the side of it. “Oh man, I’m gonna regret this.”

“Guess I’ll get these myself then,” Bucky sighed to himself, but there was a small smile on his face, the type Steve would give him all kinds of grief over. Of course he got rid of it as soon as that annoying thought crossed his mind.

He hauled the metal case- only about one by three feet and six inches deep, light enough to comfortably carry by the handle with one hand- out of the trunk and closed it behind him. Once he reached the door the other two had disappeared through, he saw there was a narrow flight of stairs descending down, parallel to and behind the wall. At the bottom was a landing that merged into hallway of sorts.

Maybe Clint was onto something. It really was a place that had him checking over his shoulder every now and then. 

Once he reached the landing, at the end of the hallway, which would have been completely dark if not for the light of their cell phones, he found Clint and Natasha waiting outside a solid metal door.

“What so do we go through it? Is it locked? Have you even tried it?” Clint was asking, but Natasha just muttered for him to shut up and lifted her hand and knocked, the heel of her palm hitting the metal surface with a dull, echoing thud three times.

“Oh god, things just got so much creepier,” Clint groaned, shuffling back a step. He might have gone further if Bucky hadn’t blocked his retreat.

“What, not afraid of the dark are you?” Bucky mocked, lips curling into a predatory smile.

Clint only jumped a little before he turned his cellphone’s flashlight on him. “I’m only afraid of the dark when people like you and Nat are skulking around in it,” Clint retorted.

Bucky huffed out a laugh. “Well then aren’t you glad we’re here with you,” he mocked, “and not on the other side of that door?” 

“Aww, you gonna keep me safe, sweetheart?” Clint mocked right back, even worse,  smiling disarmingly and batting his eyelashes at him as he stepped closer. “Gonna be my knight in shining armor?”

Bucky would have had to be blind to miss the spark of a challenge in his eyes. “I’ve been known to save a damsel in distress from time to time,” Bucky responded, shrugging, his voice barely more than a low pur. It came out different than intended.

“Is that so?” Clint asked, grinning. “In that case-”

“Please,” Natasha interupted, sounding pained. “Enough.” 

They were saved from awkward silence by the faint scraping sound of a lock opening behind the door, and a moment later, the metal door slid open on surprisingly well oiled hinges, light spilling through the  open door frame. 

Maria Hill stood behind it looking impatient, one hand holding the door open, the other on her hip.

“Inside,” she ordered promptly, stepping aside and motioning for them to enter. 

They did, entering what turned out to be a small foyeur, the hallway continuing straight past the door and a small room off to the side, the open door revealing a desk and computer monitors depicting various scene of security footage across the wall. But more than that, it was like stepping into a completely different building.

The floors were covered in carpet, the walls and ceiling drywalled and painted a light beige color, the entire space was well lit with lamps lining the walls, without a speck of rust or strand of cobwebs in sight.

“Hill,” Natasha greeted cooly. 

“Romanova.” There was no dislike between them, but no friendship either. Just professional courtesy. Maria closed the door behind them, sliding and turning multiple locks and steel beam reinforcements back into place. Enough to look out of place. And a bit like a doomsday shelter. “Alright, follow me.” She walked past them down the hallway, motioning for them to follow.

Natasha started after her first, Clint and Bucky following behind. Bucky made note of what was most likely a gun in the back of her belt beneath her jacket, mentally filing that risk factor away along with his developing mental map of the place and its exits.

Clint glanced sideways at him, saying quietly under his breath, “Well, this took a sudden turn toward-”

“Bates Motel,” Bucky concluded.

“Yep,” he said, nodding in agreement. 

They were silent after that.

Turning left around the far corner at the end of the hallway, they entered a large room, the size of which mirrored the warehouse floor above them. Inside, rows upon rows of shelves were lining the walls and dividing the room, interspersed with broad support columns, stacked to the ceiling with crates and boxes of various sorts, all lettered and numbered in orderly sections.

They followed Maria along the wall to the right, arriving in an open corner of the room devoid of shelving and inventory, an open concrete square complete with a table in the center covered with an assortment of strewn paperwork and stacks of files.

Fury stood leaning over the table, hands planted firmly on either side of the open file he was looking at, or perhaps just scowling deeply at; with the eyepatch, the frown lines, and the permanent look of displeasure fixed on his face, it was hard to tell whether he was reading it or planning the file’s unfortunate demise.

“You cleaned this place up very nicely,” Natasha said by way of greeting, a note of pleasant surprise in her tone.

“It’s temporary, but it will do,” Fury responded tersely. “You brought it with you?”

“James.” Natasha looked back at him and inclined her head toward the table.

Stepping forward, he set the case down gently on a clear space on the table, flicking the latches up and opening the lid. Bucky stepped back as Fury walked around the table toward him, allowing him space to inspect what he was paying for. 

He examined the inside of the padded case that was protecting the two swords. Both were very old, would probably fall apart if not careful, but they were never intended for use in the first place. They were however plated with gold and delicate silver ornamentation and encrusted with gemstones, and apparently made for Napoleon and given to his favorite officers, which added to their value. 

“What’s the shelf life on these?” Fury asked.

“It’s been almost five years now, been cold for three,” Clint answered. “Expires September next year.”

Fury looked up, fixing a steely glare on him for a long moment that made Clint shuffle back a half step, crossing his arms defensively. “Federal statute of limitations on art theft is twenty years,” he said, narrowing his gaze into something that was almost accusatory. 

Clint straightened his posture, almost challenging. “Wasn’t federal. It was from a travelling private collection, between museums. In Massachusetts. The statute’s six years. And that wasn’t an admission of theft, for the record.”

“You know the rules. There’s no record here, Barton,” Fury said, sounding bored, like it wasn’t a new argument. “Not unless you brought one with you.” 

Clint snorted, rolling his eyes. “Of course not. Though I am curious about the interesting lack of security measures here necessary to enforce those rules. Is that a new hospitality-centric business model you’re trying out?”

Bucky cringed inwardly. They needed this to go well. This was not the time for Clint’s sass.

Fury stood upright, glowering at Clint from the other side of the table. “I take extra security precautions with people I haven’t done business with and people I’m concerned Hill is going to have to shoot. You three are not any of those people. Not unless you’d  _ like  _ to be.” 

Clint side-eyed Hill, who smiled politely yet tiredly at him, crossing her arms. While doing so pushed her jacket to the side to reveal the gun holstered in her belt, Bucky wouldn’t fault her if it was intentional. 

“Not everything’s gotta be settled with guns,” Clint complained quietly, sliding backward a half step behind Natasha.

“The same escrow account?” Fury continued, asking Natasha.

“Yes, if that still works for you,” she nodded.

“Coulson’s meeting an appraiser tomorrow morning, but assuming they check out, I have a buyer in mind. Of course I don’t get the wire transfer until it’s settled, they arrive, and the buyer’s happy.” Fury snapped the case closed, looking between the three of them. “I can expedite shipping if you’re in a hurry,” he offered, knowing that it was plenty likely from what limited information Natasha and he had discussed earlier and from the fact that whenever more than two of them were in a room together something big was going down. “But it’ll cost you.”

“That depends on what time your average turnaround is,” Bucky said, leaning back against the wall easily.

He considered it, saying, “I can get you the money in about a month, four weeks tops, with my usual ten percent off the top.

“Ten percent for two days of facilitation?” Natasha asked, her tone incredulous. “You’ve got two weeks to pull the money together, which we both know you can do, and you get five percent.”

“Shipping to Southeast Asia, especially following the customs crackdown after the little stunt  _ you  _ pulled last year in Bangalore,” Fury said, giving Natasha an accusatory look, “ _ isn’t  _ easy. I can do three weeks, eight percent, and only because of that thing with the Spanish silver.”

“Three weeks,” Natasha relented, but then help firm with “five percent.” She stared cooly at him, cocking her head in an almost imperceptible challenge.

It was a tense moment before Fury let out a slow breath, almost growling. “Seven percent, three weeks, and that’s the lowest I’ll go, or you can try and find another buyer for these,” he said, knowing full well they couldn’t.

“Six percent,” Bucky chimed in from behind them, “or the next bit of business we came here to discuss, we go discuss with Alexander Pierce instead.”

Fury pivoted to level a calculating look at him. “Ha,” he laughed humorlessly. “Of all the people that you, Barnes, would willingly work with, I’d think Pierce and his operation would be the last of them. He burned you. In fact, for a while the rumor was you were gonna hunt him down and kill the poor bastard, not that I’d be sorry to ese him go. Or was that before Rogers backed you down? So tell me again how you’d rather work with him?”

From the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Clint glance between him and Fury curiously, uncharacteristically silent.

Bucky ignored it, shrugging nonchalantly and refusing to break eye contact with Fury. “Maybe not my preference, sure, but this isn’t just about me and what I want, now is it? Business is business. And if you want us to conduct our business through you instead of Pierce in a couple months, we need a little leeway right now to make it happen.” A slow, disarming smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Consider it an investment.”

Fury didn’t look pleased about the corner he’d been backed into, but then, he never outwardly looked especially pleased, so it was hard to tell what he was thinking. He took a moment to weigh his options though, first glaring at Bucky before moving on to Natasha and Clint before responding. 

“Usually,” he said, “I like to know what I’m investing in before signing a check.”

Natasha stepped forward to the table, pulling a folded up piece of paper from her jacket. She unfolded it carefully and set it down on the table, sliding it across to Fury. He pulled it over in front of him, taking a moment to read it over.

It was a list, in Steve’s handwriting, very concise in its content but limited in details. It was not a short list.

Fury blinked a few times, reading it again. “This is-”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed.

“All of them?” He sounded doubtful. 

“That’d be the plan.”

“What time frame are you working with?”

“End of the year,” she answered.

Another pause. Fury nodded, picking the case up and passing it off to Hill, who promptly took it and disappeared into the rows of shelves and crates without a word. “Six percent, I can front you the money and get it down to two weeks, if that helps.”

“It does,” Natasha said, nodding. 

“But,” he said sternly, “I expect a substantial return on investment. And if anyone else mentions Pierce I’ll shoot them myself. Do we have a deal?”

“That seems agreeable,” Natasha said, taking Fury’s offered hand and shaking on it.

“Good,” he said. “Any other arrangements to discuss regarding this?” Fury asked, picking up the paper Natasha had given him and folding it again before sliding it into his inside pocket.

“Well, how do you feel about running half a Mona Lisa?” Natasha asked.

There wasn’t a great name for what they were doing. The complete Mona Lisa con involved creating numerous forgeries, stealing the real thing in a highly publicized heist, and then selling all of the copies to buyers around the world to multiply profits. Everyone thought they were buying the original. It also had a side effect however, which is really all they wanted. If any of the numerous law enforcement bodies that would be after them tracked down one of the copies, there was no definite link back to the original theft and no knowing if it was them or any other forger in the world taking advantage of a high profile job. 

They wouldn’t be running the full con because Fury was a reputable fence, and when a wealthy or influential client finds out they’ve bought a multi-million dollar forgery, on occasion, either the Feds get a tip or bodies start to drop. They’d still flood the highly trafficked black market hubs and borders with copies however, but the goal was  _ to get _ law enforcement’s attention, and send up enough red flags to distract from and obscure the real ones. 

Fury seemed slightly taken aback, meaning he got the idea. “You’re planning on moving these quick,” he observed. “How many will Rogers be making?”

“Ideally, two per,” Natasha said.

“I thought the plan was three?” Clint jumped in, slightly confused. 

Bucky winced, saying, “Yes and no. We need one of each for-” he wasn’t sure how to say it without oversharing in front of Fury- “the thing, and then, depends on how much time Steve has. Can’t exactly carry ‘em across borders before it’s even done. Would leave red flags. It’ll have to wait until we get there.”

“So two or three for each,” Natasha summed up, turning back to Fury. “Can you scatter that many at once?”

“That depends on how quickly you want to liquidize. As soon as possible?” he asked.

“If all goes well, we’ll  _ have  _ to move them ASAP,” Bucky explained. 

“Art isn’t really my strong suit,” Clint added, “but I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever tried to move this much- with the amount of heat it’s going to generate- all at once before.” He looked back at Fury. “Can you handle that?” 

He glared at Clint, almost indignant if he would’ve cared to be. “I’ll start finding interested buyers. Auction would be the best platform. Where will I be exporting from?” They hesitated, the details about where this was happening going beyond what they were prepared to share. Fury just rolled his eyes. “Can you give me a continent and cardinal direction, at least?”

Bucky and Clint looked to Natasha. 

“Central Europe,” she stated after considering it. “It goes without saying that you keep the details to yourself.”

“Of course,” he waved it off. “I’ll begin making arrangements, but as soon as you have the copies you want moved, let me know. That takes more time.”

“Will do,” Bucky said. “Steve’s eager to get started on that anyway.”

“If it’s settled then-”

“One more thing actually,” Clint jumped back in, stepping forward and leaning against the edge of the table. He had a grin on his face that was perhaps meant to be charming (not that it wasn’t) or to ingratiate him with Fury (thought given his stony exterior, that was doubtful), but Bucky figured it just spelled trouble. “How are you with moving license-restricted hardware across international borders, sort of, under the radar?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“I’ll drive,” Clint offered cheerily, turning on his heel and walking backward toward the car while motioning for Natasha to toss him the keys as they left the steps and entered the main body of the derelict warehouse.

“I think not,” Natasha responded, keeping hold of her keys.

“Aww,” he complained, looking slightly betrayed. “Why not?”

“Because it’s my car and you tend to drive like you stole it,” she said flatly, unimpressed.

“I don’t get why people say that- ‘drive it like you stole it’. If you steal a car and you don’t want the cops’ attention, there’s only one tried and true method: drive the speed of traffic, don’t stop for yellow lights, rolling stop at stop signs, but always use your blinker and make sure the damn car’s headlights work beforehand, because that’ll get you.” He nodded sagely at his own advice. “Anyway, I’ll take shotgun then.”

“Too late, called it,” Bucky said, smirking at the borderline offended look Clint shot back.

“What? No,” he shook his head. “I was in the back on the way here, you don’t get it twice. And you can’t call shotgun before seeing the car,” he complained.

“Too bad,” Bucky declared. “Nat, tell him I have shotgun.”

She sighed, making it clear she was already tired of this. “Clint, get the door,” she said, motioning to the rusted metal panel, “then get in the back.” She clicked the keys, unlocking the car.

Clint rolled his eyes. “Fine. I don’t need the keys anyway.” He darted ahead of them, rounding the car and stopping by the driver’s side door.

“You’re not about to hotwire my car, Clint,” Natasha warned, but Clint just glanced back at her with a shit-eating grin if Bucky had ever seen one and threw the door open, ducking down out of view. “Clint! Leave my console alone, damn it,” she swore, frustrated, but mostly to herself. 

Natasha picked up her pace, jogging ahead of Bucky- who was far more amused- to stop him before he did the vehicle any damage. 

Bucky figured he’d leave them to sort it out and turned toward the warehouse door instead. The rattling and echoing of the chain and pulley and the rising metal door only partly drown out the startled yelp of pain and the string of colorful, angry Russian swearing.

He waited for the car to back out, unsurprised to see Natasha behind the wheel, before lowering the door again and getting in the just as unsurprisingly vacant passenger seat. Over his shoulder, Clint was hunched over in the back seat, glaring at an utterly unconcerned Natasha bitterly and clutching his wrist against his chest like it hurt. 

The tense silence prevailed until they pulled out of the industrial zone and back onto a paved road. 

“That was unnecessary,” Clint finally said, quiet and bitter.

Natasha hummed in disagreement, looking entirely unconcerned.

“I need my goddamn hands Natasha. I know it’s hard for you to  _ not  _ resort to violence,” he said about as sarcastically as he could manage, “but please try to avoid ripping one of them off next time.”

“You’re retired, aren’t you? So how much do you  _ really _ need them?” That was sarcastic too. But Bucky knew her well enough to hear that there was also something sour and hurtful beneath them that gave them weight. 

Clint wouldn’t have looked like he felt them sting so much if he didn’t catch it too. His response however was to look like he was bracing to launch into an argument that Bucky did not want to be in the middle of. And certainly not in a car with.

“Maybe I read it wrong, but Steve gave me the impression you two were friends,” Bucky preemptively altered course, not to say that he wasn’t still amused with what had happened.

Natasha huffed a quiet laugh under her breath, the ghost of a smirk on her lips. “We are.”

Clint rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat and kicking the back of Natasha’s before agreeing, deadpan, “Yeah, besties.”

Bucky looked between them for a moment, perplexed. He had a thought. Not a fully fleshed out one. Not one he was entirely comfortable with for whatever reason.“Are you-” He stopped himself, not sure of the best approach or if he should touch the topic at all. “Were you two…?” He looked between the two of them. Natasha glanced across him quickly, having to return her eyes to the road, but the look of confusion said enough. “I mean, you two, you never… Did you?” he motioned between the two of them.

Her eyes widened. “No,” she said, definitive. “You read that truly, impressively incorrectly James,” she said, shaking her head. “ _ My god, no _ ,” she repeated in Russian, followed by some more quiet, spiteful words regarding his apparent idiocy.

“Okay, fine, but you have to admit it’s an easy mistake to make,” Bucky said, hands up in surrender. Despite her reaction, he had to admit to himself there was a follow-up question to be asked, a thought that was sitting silently at the back of his mind. The same interest that wasn’t as easy to ignore, tugging annoyingly deep down in his belly. 

Natasha rolled her eyes at that, her mouth set in firm disagreement.

“What? I’m confused,” Clint said, leaning forward to poke his head into the front of the car between them. “Are we what?”

“The question was ‘were you’, not ‘are you’, and it doesn’t matter. I got a resounding no,” Bucky said, trying to dismiss the topic. “My bad.”

“It’s actually a very difficult mistake to make. Particularly if you’ve ever been around him-” she said, jerking her head in Clint’s direction- “for more than two consecutive minutes.”

“Hey,” Clint said, like he wasn’t sure if he should be offended. “What about me?”

“I’m just saying,” Bucky tried to defend himself from what was unjustifiable outrage in his opinion, “you two act like-”

“You’re mistaken.”

“No I’m not,” he insisted. “From an unbiased-”

“Guys,” Clint interrupted again, “please.”

“-outside perspective, you two act like you’re-”

Clint shoved his way between them, cutting Bucky off. “Look, I know you two know each other from something Nat’s pretty hush-hush about, and that’s chill and all, but I’m not a huge fan on the secret spy language stuff going on up here, and I’m also not a fan of being ignored from the back seat, so if you could just tell me what the fuck you’re-”

“He thought we were fucking, Clint,” Natasha said bluntly, loudly, with a look that said she wanted nothing more than to not be in that car.

A strangled sound escaped Clint’s throat and he recoiled immediately into the back seat. 

“Wow. What a fucking fantastic way to word it,” Bucky said, voice dripping sarcasm.

“Why the fuck would you tell me that?” Clint yelled at Natasha, a look akin to horror on his face. 

“Look, I’m sorry alright? Clearly I mistook what is a more disgruntled sibling relationship for you two being exes,” Bucky explained, rubbing at his temples like he could feel the impending headache. “My fucking bad.”

“I think my spirit astral projected itself into the sun,” Clint said, shaking his head. “Stop the car. Pull over. I need to get out and die.”

“Now you’re being overly dramatic,” Natasha snapped. 

“No I’m not. I’ve always wanted to die on the side of the highway,” he said, staring out the window wistfully. “Maybe a semi will come along that I can jump in front of.”

“That seems a little excessive,” Bucky said dryly.

“Keep that up and I’m going to get offended,” Natasha warned, her grip tightening on the steering wheel.

“Aww, Nat, you know it’s not you- you’re great,” Clint said, patting her shoulder in consolation. “It’s just, you know. Plus, that’s like, breaking so many rules: don’t date your best friend, don’t date people you work with, don’t date people who could kill you in your sleep,” he listed, counting off his fingers. “Hell, that breaks all of them except for the ‘don’t date a cop or a Fed’ one.” He glared sharply again at Bucky. “And, oh yeah, I almost forgot one more. Don’t date people that you’ve known for so long that you’re basically related because that’s nasty.”

“Jesus Christ, get off my back,” Bucky swore, sinking down in his seat and wishing he’d never said anything in the first place. Still, information was information, even if he came by it in an uncomfortable, regrettable way.

“Well in his defense,” Natasha said, inclining her head toward Bucky, “he was thinking sleeping together, not dating. That’s  _ possibly  _ an easier mistake to make.”

Clint snorted unattractively, crossing his arms. “ _ Maybe _ ,” he acknowledged. “Maybe. But then I’m clearly not putting out the right vibes. In that case, my fault I guess. What do I have to do, though? Wear a fucking rain-”

“Clint,” Natasha warned more softly, “I support you, you know that, but if you try any harder than you already do, I’m going to push you in front of a goddamn semi myself.” She smiled sweetly at him via the rearview mirror to show that she meant it.

He hesitated, and nodded after a moment. “Point taken.” 

“Loud has never been your style anyway.”

“Fair.”

“Don’t you remember the incident with the purple glitter? I was finding it years later.”

He blushed, crossing his arms and staring determinedly out the window. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The door slammed behind him, perhaps just a little louder than he intended. Bucky winced, freezing in his stride and mentally kicking himself for not getting a grip before barging in. He waited on baited breath for just one second, then two, holding onto the unreasonable hope that his entry would go unnoticed.

“Buck? That you?” Steve’s voice called out from the other side of the apartment. 

He sighed, already feeling the fantasy of collapsing into bed and staring at the ceiling in the dark for a few hours slipping away, his limbs feeling heavier by the minute. He was tired more than anything. Too many people, too much doing things. 

Still, this was Steve. Steve was alright.

“Yeah,” he called back, trying to keep the exhaustion and, what would be worse, the disappointment out of his tone, suspecting based on past experience that Steve would spiral immediately and irreversibly into concerned mother hen mode.

“How’d the-” Steve faltered for a second like he didn’t know what to call it. “How’d the thing go?”

“Fine. Covered all our bases,” he said, tossing his keys into the bowl on the cabinet. 

He walked through the combined living room and kitchen, down the hallway past Steve’s and the guest bedroom where he was staying, and stopped in the doorway of the small corner of the apartment that was unfurnished. It was all hardwood floors and nearly floor to ceiling windows, likely intended for a large office or library or that maybe could’ve been converted into a dining room. That hadn’t stopped Steve from turning it into an art studio.

“Fury agreed to two weeks turnaround. His cut’s six percent off the estimate he gave us,” Bucky explained briefly, leaning against the door frame and watching Steve work. He didn’t turn around, leaving Bucky to watch over his shoulder as he sketched a rough form on a canvas at one of the many easels lined up in a semicircle around the room, each occupied with more canvases or pinned up papers filled with various stages of rough drafts and reference pictures.

“Two weeks isn’t bad,” Steve mused, pausing and examining the canvas for a moment. “And then with Natasha’s rainy day fund and the exorbitant amount of cash in small non-sequential bills that Tony had squirreled away, that should cover expenses, with extra,” he said, pleased that it was coming together.

“Freeloading, are we?” Bucky teased, only a faint curl at the corners of his mouth. “Gotta say, I’m disappointed, Stevie. Goodness know you can afford it.” 

Steve jerked upright, ramrod straight like he’d been physically struck before he spun to face him, his expression twisted with indignation. 

“Don’t you know by now that this is a cash-dependent enterprise?” he scolded, one hand going to his hip as he shook a charcoal stick threateningly at him with the other. “It’s  _ impossible _ to liquidize assets or cash out bank accounts that quickly, by that degree, without sending up red flags. I would have-”

Bucky grinned slowly, just shaking his head and holding his hands up in surrender. “Hey, relax. I’m just kidding.” He shrugged as apologetically as he could muster. “It’s too easy to get a rise out of you.”

Steve’s shoulders slumped a little and he sighed, shaking his head. “You’re not half as funny as you think you are.”

Setting down the charcoal he was working with, he walked over to the small folding table he’d set up in the corner, currently covered with his notebooks, clean canvases, more charcoal and pencils, and various tubes of oil paints, palettes, brushes, and plenty of things which Bucky had no idea what to call. Grabbing a relatively clean damp cloth he kept on standby, he tried in vain to scrub the dark smudges from his hands.

“What do you mean? I’m hilarious.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Steve looked unimpressed. “And the other thing?” he asked, looking at Bucky expectantly. 

“Yep. Fury’s making preparations to export from Europe, just give him a call when you know when,” Bucky said. “I should also mention that Barton got him to agree to some favorable finder’s fee and shipping rates to get whatever stuff we’ll need, even though it didn’t go super well.”

Steve looked confused at that, possibly a little concerned, but Bucky had seen that look on Steve’s face so often in the past… for too long, that it stopped having much meaning. “What do you mean it didn’t go well.”

“Nothin’, the guy just annoys people. Fury especially I think,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes at the recollection of how, for a split second, he thought Fury was going to call Hill back for the sole purpose of shooting Clint. “He never shuts up,” Bucky complained, mouth pressed in a flat line in distaste. “He’s overdramatic,  _ all the time _ . He’s a disaster to any plan just waiting to happen. I gotta say, I’m not surprised that working alone is his thing. But I am surprised that he’s lived this long without someone like Natasha holding his hand every step of the way.”

Steve laughed, nodding begrudgingly, but clearly amused. “Well, they did work together for a long stretch, still did right up to, well,” he faltered, shrugging apologetically before moving on. “But yeah, that’s fair. He’s a good guy, though. If you get to know him-”

Bucky snorted. “But  _ that  _ raises the question of how Nat’s gone this long without killing him,” Bucky continued, ignoring whatever Steve was about to say. “In fact, she seems pretty attached to him, which is surprising.”

Steve held up a hand to interject, seeming to know Bucky’s thought process enough to predict where it was going. “Oh no,” he warned, “they’re definitely not and never have-”

“Oh,  _ I know _ .” Bucky crossed his arms. “I got an earful on the drive back. Trust me, I know.”

“Oh god,” Steve said, barely able to contain his laughter. “You didn’t- you didn’t actually think he and Nat-”

“No, not  _ really _ ,” Bucky tried to explain, his expression pained. “She’s too- and he’s way too- it just didn’t make sense at the time, but clearly it’s a love-hate relationship, I get that now.” He glared at Steve, but he didn’t have the energy to put real effort into it, and Steve ignored him and kept on grinning at his misfortune like the bastard he was.

“Sure,” Steve agreed, reining in his amusement. “Natasha might decide to kill him someday, but I feel sorry for whoever else tries in the meantime it if she gets her hands on them.”

“Hmm,” staring off at the far wall for a moment, Bucky nodded, but the thought rubbed something inside him the wrong way. He changed the topic. “What’s all this? Thought you couldn't get started, can’t take any of it through customs without sending up those red flags you’re so worried about?”

“Just some studies, practice pieces,” Steve explained in few words, refusing to let the topic go. “You know you don’t  _ have  _ to like him, only work with him,” he said like it was a consolation.

“I don’t  _ not  _ like the guy,” Bucky corrected. Too quickly? Maybe. Steve raised an eyebrow, looking at him suspiciously. “He’s likable enough- but- fuck it,” Bucky swore, “it’s hard not to like him, but he’s an annoying fucker if I ever met one.”

Steve laughed at that. He gave him the look- the  _ look _ \- the one he was pretty certain he hadn’t gotten in years but that he learned to recognize ever since Steve found out he had a thing for Emily Peterson in the sixth grade. Steve didn’t even attempt to conceal just how much he was enjoying this as Bucky groaned in pain.

“Oh fuck off, Steve,” Bucky grumbled, rolling his eyes and pushing off the wall to leave the room, turning his back on him.

“Oh come on, I was just kidding,” Steve said, hurrying after him, and, without thinking, reaching out and grabbing his forearm to stop him.

Bucky didn’t see it coming, wasn’t ready for it.

It was stupid and he thought he was over this by now but his fucking brain wasn’t ready for it.

Bucky jerked away violently at the touch, freezing up immediately after he did, his pulse already having skyrocketed. Once his brain kicked into gear again however, he began mentally cursing himself in three different languages. It was too big a reaction to play off, pretend it didn’t happen and go hole up in his room for twenty-four hours until he was ready to get within twenty feet of another living person. 

“Fuck,” Bucky hissed on an exhale, forcing himself to breath out slowly, standing up straight, letting go of the coiled tension in every muscle that had him ready to snap and willing his heart to stop racing.

To Steve’s credit, he didn’t freak out. Didn’t try to fix it, break down into ridiculous apologies, or rush to crack open the literature on PTSD and flip to the ‘How to Talk About It with Your Loved One’ chapter, subsections one through some number he never even got to. 

He was just silent for a second, staying still right where he was, waiting for him to get his bearing again.

Bucky swallowed uncomfortably, shifting to press his back against the wall of the hallway, Steve standing a couple feet away inside his studio and waiting there patiently for him to be a normal fucking human being again. “Well,” Bucky finally said, his voice rasping slightly from the constricting, dry feeling in his throat that he couldn’t shake. “This is awkward.”

Steve didn’t skip a beat. “You okay?” he asked. He didn’t make it a monumental thing, which Bucky was grateful for. To someone listening it might as well have sounded like he tripped or got a papercut.

“Fine.” He took a breath, mostly normal again and shifting awkwardly. “I don’t-” his mouth twisted like he tasted something bitter. He shook his head.

“Did I hurt-”

“No,” Bucky snapped. “It doesn’t- doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Steve was silent for a minute before he did the most un-Steve-like thing imaginable, which was to back down. “Okay.”

Bucky snorted, then had to remind himself that this was Steve reacting the way he should react, how Bucky far prefered he react, and that he shouldn’t bite his head off for it, even if his knee-jerk reaction was to strike out at anyone in sight. Baby steps, baby steps. Self-awareness. All that crap.

“Sorry,” he managed to get out, his throat feeling too tight, mouth too dry still. He let his head fall back against the wall. “I don’t-” He took a breath. “I don’t know why.”

After a second Steve just shrugged. “Not your fault.”

He laughed, harsh and dry and full of way too much self-loathing. “Tell my stupid-ass brain that.”

“Bucky-”

“Don’t Stevie.” He stopped trying to hide how tired he felt. “Just, I know, okay. I got it.”

Steve backed away, going back to his easel, giving Bucky space and time to get it under wraps. He picked up right where he left, business as usual, and Bucky was never so grateful in his life. 

A long while passed. It wasn’t until Bucky actually started to see a finished image forming that he spoke again.

“Thank you for not freaking out.” He forced the words out of his mouth, quiet as they were, his eyes fixed on the wall of the hallway across from him.

“Why would I freak out?” Steve asked, because he was a hypocritical ass, but then he made his point. “Are you freaking out?”

He would have rolled his eyes even harder if he had the energy or the interest. “No.”

“See? Improvement. Not something to freak out about.” 

Bucky made a begrudging, frustrated sound, hoping it summed up everything he wanted to say about how stupid and absolutely full of it he thought Steve was, but also that he appreciated it, just a little, but that he didn’t really feel up to surpassing monosyllables at the moment.

“But you know what  _ is  _ something to freak out about?” Steve asked over his shoulder, grinning.

Bucky rolled his head where it rested against the wall to look at him, expression blank. 

“There’s a new Thai place five blocks over.”

Bucky winced. Not a good plan. Abort. Abort.

“I’ll go pick some up. You wait here?”

He blinked a few times, considered it, and nodded.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Hey Nat? Nat? Natasha? Darling? Most dearest friend? Most bestest platonic pal closest to my heart? Oh light of my-”

“Hey Clint?” she finally said, tone friendly, but too clipped. A warning.

“Yes Tasha?” 

He shifted slightly to reposition himself on the couch, upside down with his legs over the back of it, his head and shoulders steadily sliding further off the cushions and the blood running to his head as he watched her methodically flip pages in her book for the past ten minutes. She stayed tucked up in her armchair, legs folded under her with a mug of tea balanced expertly on the armrest and a book in her lap.

“Shut up.”

A disappointed sound escaped the back of his throat. She glanced up at him for the first time to see him pouting at her, upside down, looking like a kicked puppy.

“I told you, if you wanted to stay, don’t bother me,” she reminded him, returning her attention to her book. “I don’t know why you’re still here anyway.”

“You have a cat,” he said, as if that explained anything.

“Yes,” she said, keeping her eyes on the pages in front of her even she hadn’t really been reading them for the past minute while he’d been pestering her. “I do.”

“Where did that fucker get off to anyway?”

“Don’t call him that. I like that cat more than I like you,” she said, only half serious.

“Aww, that hurts Tasha,” and he sounded hurt too. “You didn’t even give him a name,” he complained. “How can you like a nameless cat more than me?”

“He’s house trained,” Natasha said, deadpan and looking up at him- still upside down and half off the couch- with a deeply unamused expression.

He inhaled as if to say something, but then as if re-evaluating his current situation, opted against it, grinning sheepishly. He rolled over, twisting around to put his feet on the floor and sit upright with more grace than he looked able. “I never liked Taco anyway,” he grumbled.

She snapped her book shut, glaring at him. “You are not naming my cat ‘Taco’.”

“Too late,” Clint declared happily, springing to his feet. He wandered over to the bookshelf by the window, perusing the shelves, not that most of them being in Russian or a couple other languages helped much with that venture. “Everyone deserves a name, even asshole alley cats. Thus,” he said, waving in the general direction he had last seen the cat, “I name thee, Taco.”

“Give me one goddamn reason, Clint. One.”

“Because when I found him, he was in an alley, eating out of an old Mexican restaurant take-out bag,” he recounted. “And because Taco is a better cat name than fucking Quesadilla.”

She laughed unexpectedly at that, and he was grinning like an idiot because of it, but she held fast in her decision. “You are not naming him Taco. 

“What? You don’t believe me?” he asked, immediately looking around for wherever the fat tabby got off to. “Hey Quesadilla, come here! Come to papa, you asshole.” 

Try as she might, she couldn’t suppress that smile either. “Clint, stop it,” she scolded as he dove across the floor to look under the couch. “Or I’ll sell you back to the circus.”

He laughed. “You can try. They had to get rid of me the hard way once already.” Pushing himself up onto his knees before sitting back on his heels, he mused, “I should get a dog. Dogs are way better than cats.”

“You already have a dog,” Natasha reminded him, finding the page where she left off.

“Correction,” he was quick to add, though it had a sad undertone. “ _ Kate _ has a dog. She took Lucky with her to California.”

“Hm, shame,” she said, but it wasn’t without sympathy. “But what you should do is stop taking in strays.”

He looked up at her like he was offended. “Would you rather I left Taco to get cannibalized by the bigger, meaner alley cats? He’s too soft and pudgy, Nat. And I don’t know why you’re complaining. You have a cat because of me, woman.”

She sighed. “Do you know how much airfare for pets costs? Do you?” 

He shrugged. Sure, Natasha never tended to stay in one place for more than a few months. And by place, he meant country. And sure, maybe bouncing around various apartments, hotels, and safe houses around the worlds wasn’t easiest with a cat in tow. Still, whether she’d admit it or not, she was attached to that cat. He knew it.

“I never needed a cat. Stop taking in strays,” she repeated.

He rolled his eyes. “I took you in, didn’t I?” 

She straightened up, glaring daggers at him. He recoiled, tripping over himself getting to his feet and putting some more distance between them, his hands up and open in surrender. 

“I’m joking! Only joking,” he yelped, laughing. “Sorry.”

Natasha took a deep breath, getting back to the original question. “Yes, I have a cat,” she sighed. “A cat that you hate. That still doesn’t explain why you’re still here.”

He frowned. “Is it so bad that I wanted to hang out with my good buddy, the light of my life-” he was just pushing her buttons now and both of them knew it- “my soulmate in a totally non-romantic, non-weird way, my knight in shining armor-”

“I thought James was your new knight in shining armor,” she interrupted, a sly look slowly crawling its way onto her face as the corners of her mouth curled into a sharp smirk.

“Don’t-” he complained, pointing condemningly at her. “Don’t give me that look.” He dropped back onto the couch, lounging across the length of it. He sighed heavily, quiet for an uncharacteristically long moment. “Yeah, I play a good game, I’ll give me that,” he joked halfheartedly. “But…” He grimaced, shrugging awkwardly where he lay. 

“But, what?” she asked, flipping her book closed yet again, and to her credit, this time, not out of frustration.

“Wouldn’t that be a little, I dunno, weird?” Clint stared at the ceiling, his face twisting into an odd expression of discomfort. “That would like, break the bro code, right?”

She looked at him, confused, and she allowed it to show. “Why would it be weird? What ‘bro code’?”

“Um,  _ the  _ bro code,” he said, rolling his eyes. He paused for a moment, quiet, but then, shaking his head, he jerked upright into a sitting position, cross-legged on the couch. “Jesus, I feel like I’m in therapy right now,” he muttered as he did.

“And who’s the “bro” you’re concerned about offending?” she asked, making it clear with the finger quotes that she thought this was ridiculous.

“Um,” he laughed nervously, waiting and looking at her like it was some sort of trick. “ _ You _ , my dude.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What?”

“Oh dear god, do I have to say it?” he said, growing increasingly uncomfortable. “You and Barnes have a history,  _ clearly _ ,” he started. “Something about Moscow and St. Petersburg and spy shit and you never told me about it, and that’s totally fine, like, not my business,” he reassured needlessly, “but I just got a weird vibe like, that you two...” He floundered a little. “You know?”

“Oh. No,” she said, shaking her head and derailing his verbalized train of thought. It was already crashing anyway. “We never.”

“You-” He frowned, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at her. “Are you… sure?”

She smiled, almost laughing at his comical confusion. “We didn’t. We might have, had things been different…” she trailed off, and shrugged. “But no. Perhaps for the best. I don’t think that would have worked our or ended cleanly anyway, and I value our working relationship too much.”

He considered that for a moment. “Why not?”

She thought about it, thought of a dozen different ways she could try to explain, but in the end, settled for the simplest. “We weren’t exactly compatible,” she said as he listened intently, “but we won’t ever be different enough for the whole, ‘opposites attract’ psychology to apply, either.”

Natasha was being completely honest with him, but it took him a moment to realize it. His gaze was stuck on the floor, his fingers tapping out a rhythmless beat against his knee, his mouth working like he wanted to say something and was looking for the words.

She returned to her book, waiting for him to find them.

“Well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck in the self-conscious, awkward tick of his that she had picked up on years ago but that he had yet to either notice or care about. “Best steer clear anyway.”

She shrugged, taking a sip from her mug. “If that’s what you want to do.”

He nodded, fingers still tapping away. “Plus, ya know, I’m- I’m _pretty sure_ that I’m not his type.”

She laughed, hiding her smile behind her mug.

“What?” he demanded, eyeing her sharply, once again in a position of not knowing whether he should be offended or not. “I mean, he was into you at some point, and-” he grimaced- “he thought that  _ you and me _ were a thing, Nat. You and ME. Jesus, if that says anything about my chances…”

She sighed, rolling her eyes. “Let’s just put the matter to rest with this, okay? Look here.” She set her book and mug aside completely, giving him her full and undivided attention. “I, Natalia Alianovna Romanova, formally, in my capacity as your friend and an unwilling party to the aforementioned “bro code”, release you from all bars, restrictions, and limitations- perceived or actual-” he just rolled his eyes- “surrounding your relationship to one James Buchanan Barnes,” she finished, shaking her head and smiling like it was ridiculous, because it was. “So don’t let this stupid notion that I care- or care _to know_ - who you sleep with, date, engage in any sort of relationship with, or otherwise care about, hold you back.”

He blinked, staring blankly at her for a moment.

“What?” she finally asked, trying to be sympathetic but quickly losing patience. “Do I need to sign something?”

“His middle name is  _ Buchanan _ ?” he blurted out, suddenly struggling to keep a straight face.

Again, her friendship with Clint proved itself to be a test in patience and forgiveness.“Why the hell do you think Steve calls him ‘Bucky?” 

Clint just shrugged, unable and uncaring to contain his raw amusement at the fact. “Didn’t question it.”

“You’re not really one to talk as far as middle names go,  _ Francis _ ,” Natasha reminded him, settling back into her armchair and collecting her book and tea from the coffee table. 

“I don’t even care,” Clint said, squashing one of the decorative couch pillows against his chest as he wrapped his arms around it tightly, grinning madly. “His is worse. So much worse. Which is remarkable really, given you might say it’s-”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, knowing exactly where his poor sense of humor was going. “Don’t say it.”

He paused for a beat. “Presidential.” 

She rolled her eyes, groaning in pain. Natasha tried to ignore him, trying earnestly to return to her novel. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

She left him to provide his own entertainment, first in gleefully pondering unfortunate middle names, and then in unsuccessfully attempting to locate the cat-that-was-not-Taco around the small apartment, interspersed with half committed glances through the bookshelf and the newspapers and magazines left on the kitchen counter. 

It lasted for all of fifteen, maybe sixteen minutes if she was generous.

“Um, Nat?” 

He didn’t fully catch the meaning of the disjointed phrases of Russian that she muttered a little violently at him, but he knew enough to know that they weren’t nice. “For the love of god, what is it?” she snapped. Twisting around in her chair to glare at him, she found him staring blankly back at her from the kitchen, the day’s newspaper in hand.

“Read this,” he said, tone difficult to evaluate as he walked the paper over to her. “Right here.” He pointed to a column piece tucked away in the middle of the paper.

“Why?” 

“Just do it.”

Skimming through it, it took her all of three seconds to piece together why it had him rattled. She looked up at him, not sure what to say.

“This lady’s writing a book about us, Nat. About me, you…  Shit, about all of us probably.” 


	5. Stage 3 (plans on hold)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAHHHHH I met my self-imposed deadline EARLY. This is UNHEARD OF. Holy shit guys.
> 
> Also okay thank all of you commenting so much, I cannot tell you how much I enjoy reading them and how much they motivate me to keep writing. I am absolutely blown away but the sheer number of you who subscribed, not even counting bookmarks and kudos, but shoutout to all of you who keep coming back every chapter and commenting, ily so much <3 
> 
> Aaaaaaand lastly, just a note, if anyone every reads something I've written and wants me to add tags or trigger warnings, please just let me know, of course I will.

“Let’s all keep this in proportion-”

“Are you joking right now?”

“Proportion? What does that even  _ mean _ ? Proportion-”

“-it’s one goddamn book review, nothing more than a publicity stunt-”

“Hardly more than an editor’s note really.”

“-and the book’s not even written yet-”

“-researching though-”

“Karen Page. An investigative reporter with the New York Bulletin-”

“If a reporter knows enough to write a book, my concern is what do the Feds-”

“-a Pulitzer for a piece on organized crime families on the East Coast-”

“Should I run a background check?”

“-it’s a valid concern, that freaking the fuck out won’t fix-”

“-not every day that somebody writes a book about y-”

“-some sort of exposé-”

“I’m gonna run a background check.”

“I’d kill for an aspirin right n-”

All the yelling from the whole crew packed into Steve’s living room (again) blurred together. Bucky shoved away from the wall in the corner of the kitchen that he’d backed himself into, approximately three seconds from snapping and doing something regrettable if his heart apparently attempting to escape his rib cage was anything to go by.

In his experience, it was.

He wasn’t sure where he was going except away, moving on autopilot toward the door.

He made it out into the hallway before Steve was there behind him.

“Bucky,” he called after him to no effect. “Buck- hold up, please, just a second,” he pleaded, maneuvering around him, careful to give him space- personal space was always an issue, particularly since yesterday- but coming to a stop in front of him, blocking the hallway.

“Steve, move,” he said, breathing too hard. “I can’t- I can’t be in there right now.” He tried to swallow the mix of desperation and panic in his voice. He didn’t know how effectively.

“I know. You don’t have to,” Steve said, “but please don’t just run out of here onto the street like this.”

“Like what?” he asked sharply.

“Looking like you’re about to kill someone, Buck,” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he had a headache coming on.

He laughed, harsh and unapologetic. “Well it seems like my default these days. Bite me.” He started walking again, sidestepping Steve as he headed for the stairs. Not the elevator. The last thing he needed was to be put in a box.

Steve just walked with him though, down the hallway, always in the way. “Please calm down first. You’re gonna pick a fight and that’s just trouble we don’t need right now.”

Fuck Steve for deciding that suddenly he’d be the voice of reason and Bucky would be the one itching to punch someone. How the tables had turned.

He shoved Steve out of his way this time. “What the fuck do you want then? Huh?” Bucky asked, his voice low and more than on edge.

“Just go to the roof or something. Fresh air, quiet, plenty of space-”

“You don’t have to describe what a roof is to me Steven,” Bucky said between grit teeth, taking measured breaths. “The roof’s alarmed, and locked. Always is. I know because I’ve fucking checked before.”

“Clint went up there like twenty minutes ago.”

“So fucking what?” he snapped.

“Means it’s probably not locked or alarmed any more,” Steve said, giving him a look that said he wasn’t going to spell it out for him.

He took a breath, bit back the urge to verbally or physically assault Steve any more than he already had, and kept walking. “Fine,” he relented bitterly.

“Thank you,” Steve called out, finally letting him go unaccosted.

“Fuck off,” he barked back, turning the corner, but Steve had the good grace to let it go.

By the time the heavy doors to the stairwell swung closed with a dull echo behind him, the tiny rational voice in the back of his head was telling him that maybe Steve had a point. He made it up to the last flight of stairs, taking each step two at a time, and stopped right there on the landing before the metal roof access door for a moment. 

He wasn’t borderline panic attack. He knew what that felt like and it wasn’t this. He was on his way too it though, if he didn’t get a grip. He took a few measured breaths, forced himself to loosen the tension coiled in every muscle, made himself walk slowly, take his time, breath, and inspect the door.

He tried the handle, finding it turned easily, unlocked. Contrary to the wishes of the bright red warning sign on the door, he pulled it open just a fraction of an inch, just enough to get a glimpse at the inside frame of the door. In the upper left corner, right where the magnetic trigger for the alarm was, there was-

“Okay, wouldn’t have thought of that,” Bucky admitted out loud.

There was what looked like a refrigerator magnet- the thin, rubbery soft type about the size of a business card- stuck against the magnet set in the frame. The magnet that, when separated from the opposing magnet set in the door, set the alarm off.

He pulled the door open, making sure to keep it from sliding out of place before slipping through into the cool breeze and closing it behind him.

The chill air had a jarring effect, better than any damn breathing exercises. Even the few seconds he’d spent on the door had helped, setting his mind to a problem instead of the panicked spiral of no return. 

The pebbles grit beneath his shoes, the entire flat rooftop except for a band of smooth concrete around the edge and the shallow lip of the building covered in them. Upon a first sweeping inspection, beside for the rocks and the wind and the faint noises from the surrounding city that got swept up in it, it was empty. 

Empty except for himself and the man sitting on the edge about thirty feet away, feet dangling over the emptiness below. 

It was dark and the light of the street lamps only went so far, but as he walked across the roof it was easy enough to make out that it was Clint. He had to have been the one to MacGyver the door, after all.

He was halfway there already without even thinking before he stopped, then he spent too long trying to decide if he should approach or go stake out his own side of the roof when Clint glanced around and saw him, effectively making the decision for him.

“Hey,” Clint greeted with a nod as Bucky came to stand adjacent to him. “If it isn’t Tall Dark and Deadly.”

Bucky stopped, looking down at where Clint sat on the narrow raised edge of the roof, kicking his legs gently and bouncing his heels against the bricks on the side of the building. Apparently he wasn’t bothered by the dizzying drop to the concrete below. 

Making a disapproving sound, he asked, “Isn’t that a movie, some shitty thriller out of the nineties?”

Clint nodded, shrugging. “Yeah,” he said. “But pretend it’s not. What do you think?” he asked, grinning. “I thought I’d give it a whirl, see how it rolls off the tongue.”

Bucky shrugged, giving him a sympathetic look. “Well, okay I guess. Seems a little bit forced though. Could be better.”

Clint sighed. “Yeah, fine,” he agreed sadly. “I’ll do better. I can do better.”.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll think of something that’ll stick,” Bucky consoled him, lowering himself to sit on the edge a couple feet away, but because he had enough adrenaline coursing through his system already, he kept his feet firmly on the roof.

Clint didn’t say anything, just nodded as he returned his gaze to the distant skyline.

“So, should I be concerned?” he asked, only mostly joking.

“Hmm, what?” Clint asked, looking back at him and taking a moment to focus, perplexed. Bucky gave him a look that spoke volumes. Clint looked back out over the roof, and down at himself, and what Bucky had meant struck him. “What? No, no no no,” he reassured him, looking slightly alarmed himself. “Definitely not.” He scooted back from the edge. “Just, the fresh air, and, space.” He shrugged. “You know?”

Bucky hummed in agreement, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well you did say you wanted to throw yourself in front of a semi yesterday. ”

Clint scoffed at that, brushing it aside like it was outrageous. “Did I say that? Poor taste on my part, then. But, still-” he glanced around the roof- “don’t see any semis, do you?”

Bucky didn’t necessarily like that he did, but he laughed dryly at that, his mouth twisting into a wry smile. “Not funny,” he tried to scold him anyway.

“Yeah, I know,” Clint acknowledged, his grin faltering for a moment, replaced by something a lot more conflicted and anxious that probably had a lot to do with everything happening in Steve’s apartment below.

“They were still yelling at each other when I left,” Bucky said, staring 

“Yeah,” Clint sighed. “I saw things going downhill fast and bailed. Call me a coward if you like.”

Bucky shook his head, raising an eyebrow at him. “What the hell do you think I’m doing up here?”

Clint conceded that, shrugging. “They get anywhere?”

“Not... really?” Bucky took a deep breath. “Tony wanted to run a background check on this woman that would put the NSA to shame. Something about finding all the skeletons in her closet to use them against her, but he won’t stop arguing with Sam and Steve over it for long enough to actually do anything. Sam and Steve are of the mind that this is way less of a big deal than most everyone else. But Natasha admitted that she thought the timing of it, lining up with the biggest job we’ve ever pulled that puts all of us in the same place, is suspicious at most and very unfortunate at least. That only fueled Tony’s paranoia, it left Thor questioning things, and I’m pretty sure Bruce is thinking about walking,” Bucky recounted. 

“Well,” Clint said, “that’s…not great.”

“Nope,” Bucky agreed.

“Damn,” Clint swore, shaking his head. “And it had so much potential, too.” He sounded genuinely disappointed.

Bucky twisted around to look at him, frowning. “Hold on, you’re throwing in the towel already?”

“Huh? Me? I dunno, man.” He glanced back out at the skyline. “Haven’t put serious thought into it. You?”

Bucky considered it, thinking critically about where he really stood for the first time since he’d told Steve he’d stick around if Natasha did, which turned into a different thing entirely. “I guess-” He clenched his jaw, starting over. “I’ve mostly just been along for the ride. Haven’t actually had to make any decisions yet.”

Clint splayed his hands across the concrete ledge, fingers tapping out another rhythmless beat. “Well, seems like it might be decision time.”

“Maybe,” Bucky muttered noncommittally. “What do you think about it? That article, what it said about the book?”

Clint laughed, dry and humorless. “What the hell am I supposed to think about it? Not good, that’s for certain.”

“I mean, this lady’s writing a book about the ‘white collar criminal underworld’, or something like that. And you’re called out by name.”

Clint scoffed. “Not my  _ name _ name. It’s just a moniker. And Tony’s  _ and  _ Nat’s were mentioned too.”

“I gotta wonder where a reporter gets that sort of information.”

“Investigative reporter,” Clint corrected. “She investigated.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Bucky mumbled, elbowing him.

Clint cocked his head to the side thoughtfully, teeth flashing as he bit his lower lip. He thought about it for a minute. “I dunno. There’s stuff out there. Police reports, witness accounts, wire trails, customs receipts, shitty camera footage, sometimes buyers get caught, then there’s an investigation, not that it ever goes far…” He shrugged, the ghost of a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Probably involves a lot of paper and shit pinned to a wall and a whole lotta red string.”

Bucky shook his head, doubtful. “I’ve got to imagine it’s a little more organized, a little less ‘A Beautiful Mind’ than that.”

Clint grinned, slow and begrudging. “Maybe. Wouldn’t know.”

“Still,” Bucky continued, thinking out loud, “that column in the paper made it seem different from the usual conspiracy ‘watch me try to unmask the scary international criminal’ nonsense. The weird fan club followings go nuts over those.”

“What weird fan club followings?” Clint asked.

Bucky looked sideways at him, not sure if he was serious at first. “Tony hasn’t gotten a chance to tell you about his following of creepy internet worshipers? Steve’s got a weird group too, bunch of criminology and art history majors with too much time on their hands. You should look into it. You’ve probably got a couple yourself.”

Clint’s expression went somewhere between distaste and discomfort. “I’ll pass on that, thanks.” He fell silent for a moment, before returning to the topic at hand. “This whole thing does make me worry about the Feds though. I mean, if one journalist can put together enough loose ends to make a book out of it, raises questions, you know?”

Bucky inclined his head in agreement. “Yeah, they were yelling about that too when I left. She’s not even done writing it yet though. Supposed to be published sometime next year,” he said, looking for some positives.

“Some good luck there I guess,” Clint shrugged. “If we do this, it’d be before any mess hits the headlines. Of course, that’s assuming the worst- that this makes waves. It’s probably just another op-ed, right?” 

Bucky watched him silently for a moment. “Are you really this chill about it? Or are we just pretending?”

“Oh we are pretending, one hundred percent,” Clint said, sighing heavily. He gave Bucky a thumbs up and a forced smile. “No point freaking out when we don’t know shit about it yet, and there’s even less we can do about it.”

“Change the subject?” Bucky asked.

“Hell yeah.”

Bucky paused. “Then, can I ask you something?”

Clint pulled one knee up to his chest, scooting around to better face Bucky next to him while his other leg dangled in the open air. He looked at Bucky critically, weighing up the cautious expression, and for a moment Bucky thought he’d get a ‘no’, or a more in character ‘fuck off’.

“Depends what about,” Clint said slowly, not sure what to make of it.

“About why they all walk on eggshells around you,” Bucky said honestly. Clint’s mouth made a hard line, his expression blank, but he didn’t say anything. So Bucky continued. “I know I said I didn't care, and I don’t, really. None of my business? Fine, just tell me to fuck off. But-” Bucky took a breath, not entirely sure what he was getting on about. “I don’t know, man. Just, you know when everyone else in the room knows something except you? I don’t exactly enjoy being the odd man out.”

Clint took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he thought about it.“Wow, you really know how to pick a new topic.”

He pulled his other leg up, folding them neatly to sit cross legged. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking; his brow was knitted, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance, but his expression was otherwise impassive. Clint’s fingers had stopped their silent, ceaseless tap-tap-tapping as she stilled and sat quietly for a moment that grew increasingly awkward for Bucky. 

He was cursing himself, wishing he’d made a stupid joke about shitty old movies instead of making things weird and real in a not great way. 

Clint took a breath to speak, and Bucky tensed involuntarily. “What did Fury mean when he said Pierce burned you, when he said he thought you’d kill him sooner than work with him? Just Pierce, or Rumlow and his team too? Or is your problem with all of Hydra?”

There wasn’t anything malicious or harmful in the way he said it. It didn’t seem like he was even bitter that Bucky had asked. This was more of a quid pro quo thing.

That didn’t stop the horrible twisting, knotted feeling from grabbing hold of Bucky’s gut.

He glanced away, forcing himself to breathe evenly. All of those rushing, panicky feelings from earlier when he fled the crowded apartment threatened to come back with a vengeance, but he did his best to swallow it down.

“You noticed that, huh? Right, Bucky said as he exhaled slowly, nodding. “Okay. So we both have our reasons for early retirement.”

“Seems like it,” Clint said. “Did yours come with a full benefits package too?”

Bucky choked on a laugh, more because it was unexpected and ridiculous than funny… well, it was the sort of thing he should’ve started expecting from this guy. Clint was grinning too. A little sad, but- but it was, nice? Fuck it. He couldn’t help it, shaking his head trying to scrub the tiredness and the stupid smile away. It was a relief more than anything, like a valve had been opened and the steadily building tension slipped away all at once on the cool night breeze.

“You dumbass,” Bucky swore quietly. He leaned back, braced on his hands, shaking his head defiantly. “Just answer one thing instead,” he asked, fighting back the smile as he tried to be serious.

“Shoot,” Clint said, unconcerned this time.

“What’s the secret? How come Natasha hasn’t killed you yet?”

Clint barked out a laugh, surprised and greatly amused. “The secret?” he asked.

“Spill,” Bucky ordered.

“Well, fine,” he said after thinking about it for a moment. “But you’re not allowed to tell anyone,” he chided, wagging a finger at him.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Fine. Seriously, I wanna know how she puts up with you.”

“That seems like a question for Nat then, don’t you think?” Clint teased, raising an eyebrow. 

“Barton, I swear to god-”

“Okay, okay,” he interjected, “Chillax, Red October.” He paused, a grin creeping across his face, giving Bucky a weird look like he was waiting for something. “Hmm? How’d we feel about that one?”

“Not your best,” Bucky admitted. “You do know I’m not Russian right?”

Clint’s shoulders slumped. “Meh, close enough.”

“I was born in fucking Indiana. Lived in Brooklyn. Enlisted in the US fuckin’ army. How does that make me Russian?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at Clint.

“Look, I only know what Nat tells me,” Clint said defensively, but hands up in surrender like he didn’t want to get into it.

“And what’s that?” Bucky asked, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Uh,” Clint stalled, eyes darting away. “Nothing. Like, not a suspicious ‘nothing’, I mean actually nothing. Something about Moscow. I don’t know. Don’t worry about it. How did we get to talking about this now?” 

He was rambling. He seemed to have a tendency to do that when he got flustered. Bucky glared at him a little, unimpressed, even if it was maybe a little adorable. “You know, I’m beginning to think that Natasha must have just developed an impressively high tolerance for you. Quit changing the subject.”

Clint sharpened the look he gave Bucky, crossing his arms. “Ha ha, very funny.” He sighed. “Look, the answer is deceptively simple.” He paused dramatically for the reveal. Bucky just sighed. “I am unkillable,” he declared, grinning. “She respects that. Knows if she tries anything funny I’ll break her streak, and she’s got a reputation to uphold.”

Bucky stared dully at him for a solid thirty seconds while Clint just shrugged, still smiling and letting him soak that in.

“The thing is,” Bucky said slowly, deadpan, “I can’t tell if you’re bullshitting me right now, or if you really believe that, and you’re just crazy goddamn son of a bitch.”

Clint laughed. “Nah man, look look look.” He tugged the collar of his sweatshirt down, revealing faded pale scar tissue beneath his left collar bone. “This one’s from when I first met Nat,” he began to explain.

“She did that?” Bucky blurted out, a mix of surprise and concern as he scooted closer to Clint and leaned forward to get a better look in the poor lighting. 

“Yep, water under the bridge and all that, though. And she hella owes me for like, the rest of my life for this and because-” he caught himself- “services rendered, let’s call it. But, point is, probably should have killed me, given she left me to bleed out on a rooftop in Kiev-”

“Jesus,” Bucky muttered. He only then realized how close he’d gotten, their faces all of a foot apart. Where the hell had his comfortable bubble of personal space gone? He straightened up, leaning back. 

“-but as you can see I am very much alive. Then there was this one,” Clint said, and this time he lifted the bottom hem, hoodie and t-shirt in one, pointing to a jagged scar below his ribcage, just left of center. 

“Did Nat- how- what?” Bucky would admit it took him a minute to focus on the scar he was talking about. Abs,  _ for days  _ good lord. And either he was flexing on purpose or it was just the cold wind and too much exposed skin. 

But he was better than that, come on now. Bucky glanced up to see the devilish curl at the corner of his lips. He leaned back, putting just a bit more distance between them. 

Clint was… just like that. From the way he moved to the way he talked, he was touchy and craved attention and he never ran short on bad jokes and or too much energy. No shame. Dramatic. Zero appreciation for personal space. In fact, he was everything Bucky loathed. Should loath. Definitely. He was like that with everyone, always. This was nothing different.

Even if it seemed a little overt. Or he was possible just very, very proud of that scar.

He couldn’t relate, not at all really, but that was probably it.

“Oh that?” Clint asked, like he hadn’t intentionally showed it off. “No, not Natasha. That’s where my brother tried to stab me. Well,” Clint corrected, apparently unconcerned about the whole thing, “did stab me, tried to kill me. Probably. I never really got the chance to ask him what his intentions were. I  _ am  _ pretty sure that he felt bad about it afterward though.” He dropped his sweatshirt back down. “And I’m pretty sure we’re even now.”

Bucky glanced back up to meet his gaze. He elected to ignore the brother comment for now, in favor of avoiding what was probably a touchy subject. “I’m not sure you should be so proud of almost dying so many times,” he said slowly. 

“Point is,” Clint said, grinning, “I didn’t. And every day I set a new personal record for number of days lived.”

Bucky snorted in laughter. “Okay, I just have to check though, because if I don’t I’m gonna feel personally responsible if anything stupid happens: You do know that you  _ are  _ mortal and  _ can  _ die, don’t you?”

“Well yeah, duh,” Clint said, like Bucky was the crazy one.

“Okay, great,” Bucky said, sarcastic, but also at least a little relieved. “I’ve had enough of crazies for one lifetime.”

Clint laughed, flopping backward to stretch out way too comfortably on the concrete, one leg dangling over the edge. And if his hoodie rode up again, and the flickering light above the stairwell door behind them caught the narrow band of tan skin peaking out beneath the hem, so be it.  “Oh yeah? Do tell.”

Bucky sighed, thinking about it for a minute. “Well, there was this one guy in Ecuador that thought he was some sort of demigod. Built this whole cult around himself, started abducting people. Thought he was saving their souls or something,” Bucky recounted. “Not my favorite job.”

“No way,” Clint said said, propping himself up on his elbows to look at him more thoroughly, unsure if he was serious. “No fuckin’ way.”

“I’m not lyin’ about this shit,” Bucky protested. “Let me tell you, people who think they’re some sorta’ god? Impossible to negotiate with.”

Clint hummed in agreement. “Yeah, can’t say I’ve ever met a self-proclaimed demigod, but I  _ am  _ pretty sure that I accidentally joined a cult once.”

“You-” Bucky shook his head, laughing too hard to continue. “You accidentally- how the hell do you  _ accidentally  _ join a cult?”

Clint shrugged, still grinning madly in that lopsided way Bucky was beginning to think was a really good look on him. 

He cleared his throat, adopting an earnest expression. “Well, it begins with an overnight trip to Singapore in a smuggler’s cabin, because pirates, and it involves some sort of gambling in a game you’ve never played before with people speaking a language you don’t understand. Then it involves some stuff I’m not gonna talk about, and it ends with dodging bullets while pleading with Natasha on the phone while she’s a continent away to come pick you up. Really,” Clint assured him, “it’s an easy mistake to make. Anyone could’ve done it.”

The thing that was most dumbfounding was that he managed to maintain a straight face from beginning to end.

“Anyone?” he repeated, blinking like this- like he- couldn’t be real. “Anyone? Anyone could’ve made that mistake? You know, I’m not quite sure about that, Barton. That seems like a you problem.”

Clint just shrugged. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Barnes. The wildest thing was honestly that I was completely sober the entire time.”

Bucky choked on a laugh. “Oh, awesome. That’s, ah, because  _ that  _ was really my concern,” he said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

“Oh, don’t be concerned for me, Terminator,” Clint said, a lazy grin curling the edge of his mouth. “I am invincible after all.” He sat upright suddenly. “Ooo, Terminator,” Clint repeated, trying it out again, relishing the sound of it. “I like it. That one’s a keeper.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, still grinning. “And here I was just starting to think that you weren’t a closet basket case.”

Clint laughed, taking a breath as if to say something before seeming to think better of it. Instead he shook his head, still smiling, if a little less brightly. “You know, here I wasn’t thinking that either.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

They didn’t head back down to the apartment until Steve texted him the all clear. 

Tony was talking, standing in the middle of the living room. “Okay, so we mostly agree that it’s coincidental-” His hands never stopped moving. Always emphasizing something. Taking up more space. “-not necessarily a reason to make take drastic measures yet. We haven’t really hit the point of no return-” Bucky wasn’t sure how long he’d been talking. Sometimes Steve or someone else interrupted. Or tried to, to varying levels of success. “I say  _ yet _ , though.  _ Yet _ . Obviously it’s something to keep an eye-” Honestly he didn’t even know if Tony paused to take a breath.

“Tony, did you do the thing yet?” Sam prompted, too tired to be annoyed.

“What? Oh, yeah, yes-”

Bucky lost interest again, his gaze wandering over the window. Clint was leaning his shoulder against the wall, his back to the rest of the room, staring out the window. The yellow-white glare of the light from the street below as it filtered through the window should have been more garish as it played across the drawn curtains, outlining his frame. It was too soft for that though. More of a glow.

“An investigative reporter with the New York Bulletin, Page explained in the brief interview that, with the help of New York City based P.I. Jessica Jones, who denied to comment, and multiple unnamed sources-” Bucky tuned in to Steve reading something off a laptop. “-what began as in interest in determining key players in the East Coast’s black market art economy rapidly developed into something far greater. Through seemingly isolated cases of white collar art, fraud, and cyber crimes, Page began mapping an international network-”

Bucky lost interest again. More tabloid stories. Clint was almost completely still, not giving any sort of indicating that he was listening either. Almost still. His arm hung loosely by his side, index and middle finger tapping gently against his thigh. Maybe it was a nervous tick. He wasn’t sure at that point.

“-gone so far as to identify individuals- highly skilled, operating on a global scale, and yet to be named or apprehended by federal law enforcement or international agencies- who make up the core-” 

Nope. Still not interested. What did catch his attention was that Natasha was watching him. She wasn’t even trying to hide it either. He looked back at her, expression blank, waiting for an explanation. He didn’t get one. She simply shifted her gaze back to Steve, who was still reading.

“-spokesperson for the FBI art crimes division similarly denied to comment-”

Ha. A useless branch of the agency if there ever where one.

“Steve, just jump to the part where it talks about us,” Sam requested.

That peaked his interest.

“Fine, hold on.” He paused, scrolling down the screen before continuing. “When Page was prompted to describe how she connected the dots, she explained how she often had to work backwards: ‘I usually start with a case where someone is charged with possessing or buying stolen goods. It’s fairly easy to trace where they came from, but the difficulty is in finding what person or group stole it in the first place. So to do that, I’ve almost always had to first find the fence that sold it. They act as a central hub, connecting-”

“Less context, more important stuff please,” Bucky pleaded, dropping his head into his hands, his elbows braced on his knees as he leaned over the edge of his seat on the couch. 

“I was getting there,” Steve complained, but he started scrolling again regardless.

“Get there faster.”

Steve ignored him, reading out loud again. “Page provided this example: ‘Take the theft at the gem exchange expo in Barcelona four years ago-”

Clint sighed, barely loud enough to hear. Bucky wasn’t sure anyone else did. He only really noticed by the way his shoulders slumped and how he leaned more heavily into the wall, resting his head against it for a moment.

“-as an example,” Steve continued reading, speeding through it to get to something. “The place was almost entirely cleaned out, everything except for some uncut stones in the back. There was no evidence who did it until last year, when the serial numbers on a set of diamond necklaces stolen from the expo were run at auction. Backtracking led the FBI to an illegal retail operation, where most federal investigations stop, but an informant led me to a name- or an M.O really- that fit, the thief, Hawkeye.” Steve glanced up at Clint.

“That job was clean,” Clint spoke up for the first time. Then, more quietly under his breath, his back still mostly turned to the rest of the room, “Damn it.” 

“I have no doubt that it was,” Steve said, sounding genuinely unconcerned.

“So you’re a reporter,” Natasha said, thinking out loud. “You know an object’s stolen, and who the buyer is. You also know where it came from. Sure, say you’re even able to track down who fenced it. But beyond that,” she paused, glancing around at the others. “Does anyone else see the problem with this?”

“Clint, what fence did you go to for that job?” Steve asked. 

He pivoted slightly, away from the window to look at them. He thought for a moment. “There was too much to move at once. I went to a couple different locals for smaller stuff, spread it around a bit. The rest I shelved in a storage unit in Madrid for at least a year before Fury’s people took care of it.”

“So no idea which those diamond necklaces went to?” Steve asked.

“Um, no,” Clint said, shaking his head. “Even if I did, small unidentifiable things like jewelry tend to circulate. I have no idea how many hands they passed through.”

“This was four years ago?” Natasha asked.

“Yeah.”

“Had you worked with the locals before?” she asked.

“Some of them-”

Natasha didn’t even let him finish. “Did you use a mediator?”

Clint rolled his eyes, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms.  “No. But it’s not like we ever met in person or exchanged personal details. And I don’t even remember which name I was working under back then. Like I said, it was a clean job.”

Natasha backed off as he got more defensive. “Alright. But-” Clint glared a little bit- “did anyone else know that was you?”

Clint didn’t answer right away. Natasha had caught his eye, giving him some sort of look that apparently conveyed a whole lot more between them than anyone else picked up on. Regardless,  he seemed intentionally ignorant to it. His jaw clenched, tension drawing across his shoulders as he turned away. Natasha looked as impassive as ever. 

He cleared his throat. “No, just me.”

Maybe Bucky was missing something, or just reading it wrong. He wasn’t the best at reading these two’s silent language. But it seemed like Natasha didn’t quite believe him.

“Well, okay, all of this only makes the missing link more problematic,” Tony commented. At the look Sam gave him, he motioned to Natasha. “What she was talking about. The problem with tracking something from buyer to fence to thief is that you don’t just get a fence to give up their business suppliers by asking nicely. Even if they wanted to, they usually don’t know, especially if it’s gotten around.”

“It does mention ‘an informant’,” Thor reminded them.

“Believe me, I didn’t forget,” Tony muttered.

“If anything’s worth worrying about, I think that’d be it,” Bruce said from where he’d been mostly listening and observing from the kitchen counter. Bucky had sort of forgotten he was there. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think that all that has the potential to hurt us right now is what we don’t know- the missing part of this equation.”

Tony hummed in agreement, reaching for his own laptop. “Anything else in that interview, Steve?”

Steve skimmed through the rest of it quickly, talking as he did. “She talks about how putting together a bunch of jobs reveals a pattern about where we tend to work, different types of jobs we tend to do, our methods, when we’re working together or with someone else- I should mention, this isn’t solely, weirdly about us eight. In fact, it only ever really references Clint, Nat, Tony and a couple of my jobs, but not me” Steve said like that was some sort silver lining. “And it focuses on others too. Like, I think she’s referring to Wade Wilson, or maybe-”

Clint made a displeased sound. “Ugh, can’t stand that guy. No sense of personal space.”

That made Bucky raise an eyebrow. First because it was a touch hypocritical, but secondly, “What were you doing learning about personal space preferences with an arguably insane hitman?”

Clint sighed, shrugging weakly. “It’s complicated.” 

Natasha scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta say,” Steve continued, sounding too impressed for Bucky’s liking as he read through the next promising article online, “this Page woman must be doing something right. She mentions the years and the bigger jobs from when Clint and,” he quoted, “ ‘the infamous Black Widow’ worked together. Hell, she even speculates here that Nat prefers cold weather and mentions that ‘the darknet hacktivist Iron Man’ has a soft spot for animal rights organizations.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” Tony complained. He didn’t look up from his laptop, fingers still flying at the keyboard.

Steve ignored him. “And she seems to be hinting at Fury’s operation. She keeps mentioning an ‘international trafficking organization’, of course that might be Hydra-” he glanced automatically in Bucky’s direction, as if just mentioning it would push him over the edge- “or any of the smaller-” Steve cut himself off, wincing as he stopped scrolling. “Nope, damn, she mentions a couple shell companies, then Shield, LLC.”

“Anything more specific that that?” Thor asked.

“Not that I see here,” Steve explained. “Tony did you-”

“Yes and no,” Tony jumped in, stopping his typing for a moment. “I’ve got plenty of information on this Karen Page person, investigative reporter with the New York Bulletin, but none of it’s necessarily a loaded gun. She’s pretty clean, possibly even ethical if you’d believe it,” he said, shrugging. “Much more ammunition on this private investigator Jessica Jones, though. Assault, assault and battery, more assault and battery, terroristic threatening in the third degree, witness tampering and intimidation, etcetera, but all charges dropped. I get the sense that Ms. Jones has a violent streak, and quite possibly some anger issues.”

“So noted,” Sam sighed, looking exhausted. “But approaching either of these people or trying to interfere or get involved in any way in the release of this book sounds like a very, very bad idea. So I don’t know why we need it.”

“No information is bad information. Having it doesn’t mean we act on it,” Tony said simply. It might have been one of the most reasonable and succinct thoughts he’d ever verbalized. “I’ll run a more thorough background check when I’ve got something more than a laptop to work with.”

“Sure, just don’t make any waves,” Steve reminded him.

Then they were talking again, weighing the information, discussing just how damaging it all was. Bucky mostly drowned it all out, his own thoughts a jumbled mess in the forefront of his mind.

On the positive side of things, the interview they’d found made it much more clear than the column piece that neither Karen Page nor the FBI or any other agencies had any idea who they were. They had M.O.s, they had monikers, they had speculation about attributing what job to who. For the most part that was old news. It was circumstantial, the wikipedia page introduction paragraph, not the type of information FBI raids or federal indictments were handed down on.

Still, a lot of it was specific. And a lot of it was correct. And that was only one interview.

Then more concerning parts. Identifying Shield, even if indirectly and it didn’t seem like she knew exactly what she was getting close to. And then the mentions of an informant.  _ The  _ informant? Multiple informants? Who was talking? About what? How much information did they spill? How much  _ could  _ they spill? Were they going to? How were they related to Clint’s job? Damnit, why was everything spinning through his head tying back to him lately? 

Whoever was talking, did they know that snitching in this line of work wasn’t good for their health? 

Too many questions, and not enough answers. One thing was becoming begrudgingly more clear however. They didn’t have a legitimate reason, at least not yet, to do anything but proceed as planned, with caution.

That meant the job was still on.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

They were laying low for a few days. 

It wasn’t like they could spare all that many if they intended to see this thing through, but they were taking a few to lay low, chase down some information where they could get it, and see if anything important came of it. 

Tony was doing some cyber stalking that would make the CIA blush. Bruce was calling in some favors under the radar, turning over rocks and seeing if anything unfortunate crawled out. Luckily, nothing much happened on that front.

Then there was Natasha, who had vanished after their emergency meeting that night with nothing more than what was maybe a ten word comment about how she was chasing down some leads and that she’d be back in a few days. 

Sam and Thor kept to business as usual under the assumption that the job would proceed as planned. Sam was checking in with his work contacts to make sure that nothing related to the mark or the job had changed, that no adjustments had to be made, and Thor was busy setting up product deliveries and getting everything in order an ocean away for their arrival. 

And Steve, well, as he was apt to do in times of perceived crisis, he dove into the details. He was busying himself double and triple and quadruple checking all of their plans, and the back-up plans, and the contingencies for those backup plans, only taking the occasional break to go back to his sketches or to eat something when Bucky reminded him to.

Then there was Clint. Clint, who muttered something about a dog to nobody in particular and drifted off without so much as a word about where he was going or what his thoughts were or if he was coming back. It had been radio silence since then.

Alright. Maybe Bucky was blowing things out of proportion. He was pretty sure Clint was coming back. It was just… the job wouldn’t work without a skilled thief. He was- Clint was- important.

By the second day of radio silence, Bucky stole Steve’s burner cell phone and was able to decipher that the initials saved in the contacts as ‘CFB’ were Clint’s. It wasn’t hard. There were only seven numbers on that particular burner, one for each of them. Though what the ‘F’ middle initial stood for he had no idea. 

It wasn’t until the fourth day of their six day prescribed hiatus that Bucky actually worked up the paranoid nerve to do anything with that number. 

He’d gone out for orange juice. Not because he was genuinely that disappointed when he’d gone to the refrigerator only to find the last carten was empty, but because Steve had been bugging him all morning with his hyper-fixation on problem solving. At that point, there was nothing left to be done in Bucky’s opinion except either wait and see if Tony, Bruce, Sam, or Natasha turned up anything actionable or wait and see if by some random, miserably unlucky and incredibly unlikely chance the sky started to fall on them. Because that would be about the equivalent of some FBI goon seeing this journalist as anything other than another storm chaser, launching the fastest and most successful covert investigation ever conducted since bureaucratic red tape was invented, and actually managing to get close to them before they hightailed it out of there to the eight corners of the earth. 

That, at least, was what Bucky enjoyed telling himself. Thinking about it any other way was not going to help anyone or anything.

So, by early afternoon, around the time Steve had begun pacing through the apartment and talking to himself about air vents and elevator shafts, Bucky said something about going down to the corner market for some goddamn orange juice.

Cutting through the sidewalk traffic, taking a shortcut through the tiny park, it wasn’t long after he’d gotten Steve out of his head that Clint starting working his way back into it. So before he could overthink it and talk himself out of it again, on some stupid impulse, he typed out the message and hit send.

_ ‘Just checking in to make sure you’re still maintaining that personal record’ _

And then he regretted it. Regretted it like a punch to the gut or that last drink after waking up with a hangover. Cursing himself, he realized that Clint wouldn’t even recognize his number so he texted again,  _ ‘this is James btw’ _ , before shoving his phone back in his pocket and the thought out of his head.

He was wandering the tiny market’s aisles some fifteen minutes later when his phones vibrated in his pocket.

_ ‘Barnes?’ _

He didn’t know what he was expecting.  _ ‘yes’ _

Bucky stood there in the middle of the deserted aisle, staring at his phone and the three blinking dots until the next reply came. 

_ ‘aw, I thought we were friends :( ’ _

The- what? He sent a question mark.

_ ‘’James’ seems pretty formal is all’  _

Bucky smirked at that, alreadying typing his reply.  _ ‘In my experience, people find it awkward to call a grown-ass man ‘Bucky’ to his face’ _

_ ‘lol ok’  _ was immediately followed by  _ ‘and Steve?’ _

Bucky glanced up from his phone at the frustrated huff from the middle aged lady behind him. Tempering his grin, he tried to look at least a little apologetic as he stepped aside hastily. 

_ ‘I went to middle school with Steve, he’s called me a lot worse’ _

There was a long pause before Clint texted back.  _ ‘I’m sure’  _

Bucky wasn’t sure what to say to that. There was another long pause, during which he occupied himself by glancing at his phone screen every other minute and reading back through the brief conversation to try and read into the tone of Clint’s texts and the context of the situation as a whole to figure out if he should respond or be satisfied that Clint was apparently alive, and let it go.

Even he thought he was maybe a little too quick to read the next incoming text when his phone vibrated again. That lady alternating between scanning the pomegranate juice options and frowning judgmentally at him certainly did.

Except it was Steve. Great.

_ ‘All good?’ _

Of course it was “all good”. Did Steve genuinely think that he couldn’t handle a tiny trip down a couple blocks to the mom and pop grocery store? And was an “all good?” text really supposed to help if he  _ were  _ having a panic attack amid the rows of off-brand cereal? 

He rolled his eyes.  _ ‘Yeah, be back in 15’  _ He found what he came for and went to check out. 

Steve sent him a thumbs up emoji as Bucky waited for the acne-scarred kid behind the counter to finish ringing up the exhausted looking dad with the toddler on his shoulders and the wide-eyed six or seven year old clinging to his legs. Bucky was already invested in winning the staring contest with the kid peering at him from behind her dad’s legs when his phone buzzed next.

Clint again. He lost the staring contest.  _ ‘If it wasnt clear already thn yep records still climbnig, but not grea t time rn, little busy will talk later’ _

Bucky frowned at that. Well, alright. It seemed a little abrupt though.  _ ‘Can I ask with what?’ _

What he got a few seconds later was a picture. And it took him a minute of squinting at it to properly orient it. He realized that it was a bird’s eye view sort of thing, looking down on an alley between what looked like two buildings. And if the rusted railing through the foreground was any indication, it was taken leaning over the edge of a fire escape. There were three people in the alley, mostly blurred, but Bucky was able to make out the baseball bats.

It was followed up almost immediately by a text. 

_ ‘my Russian friends r back :)’ _

The words that dropped out of Bucky’s mouth next were not child friendly, if the look from the dad fishing cash out of his wallet and the awed expression of the girl half hiding behind him were anything to go by. Luckily the more colorful ones weren’t even in English, so he didn’t feel all  _ that  _ bad about it.

That moment was, however, how he ended up abandoning his quest for orange juice, ignoring eleven text messages and five missed phone calls from Steve, and spending the better half of his day avoiding baseball bat (and a freaking machete? really?) wielding tracksuited gangsters while getting their one good thief off a roof in Bed-Stuy without anyone trying to kill him, or Bucky by association. 

And all the while he was helping his ass, he had to listen to Clint complain that A) He swears he had it all under control, B) He had a really good reason okay? His building’s furnace broke down (again) and his tenets didn’t want to complain about the cold but he took his landlord-slash-handyman job seriously, and C) It wasn’t even fun messing with these guys anymore, because they took everything too personally and he was beginning to think they might actually be trying to kill him. 

In the end, Steve was kind of pissed, or maybe freaked out would’ve been the better word. Apparently the brief  _ ‘change of plans, eta unknown’  _ text he sent him when he got the chance didn’t help much. 

However, at the end of the day, they also had zero felonies, made zero trips to the hospital, and Clint, a little sheepish after the machete incident, promised drinks on him some time, so Bucky was going to take the whole thing as a win.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The click of her boots on the pavement announced her arrival. The sound echoed through the basement of the small parking structure, empty except for maybe five or six cars tucked away safely in the better lit area of the elevator access. 

Lamborghini, Jaguar, Tesla, something that looked like a Ferrari beneath an emblazoned protective cover… he had expensive taste. Then again, if you were looking to borrow any generic high valued sports car, the VIP long-term parking garage of the nearest airport would do the trick. Just take care of the cameras, time the guard rotation right, and you’re driving out of the lot with your chosen pick faster than a sales rep could say “Can I interest you in a newer model?”

Of course, it also required the skills, a steady hand, and the ability to keep a level head on your shoulders, but Natasha was generous enough to extend the benefit of the doubt.

Scott Lang’s head popped up over the Lamborghini he’d been crouching beside while working on the lock of the driver side door. He looked halfway into a panic at the sound of someone approaching. When he recognized her, she couldn’t say that panic abated.

“Oh, hey, hi,” he stammered, smiling nervously though throwing up a brave front. He stood up, leaning awkwardly against the car like someone had shouted ‘act natural’. “Ms., uh…” he trailed off, looking supremely uncomfortable.

She stopped a few feet away from the car. “What?” she asked, a sharp edge to her tone. 

“Oh, nothing, sorry just, well two things actually,” Lang explained, shoving his hands in his pockets. “First, see, you and I aren’t exactly on a last-name sort of basis- well you know mine, I just don’t know yours, not that there’s a problem with that,” he rushed to reassure her, “but I also feel weird just using the first name that you gave me, even if your name is Natalie, so I don’t really know what to call you is all. And secondly, you don’t happen to own any Lamborghini’s do you?”

Clint could learn a thing or two about nervous rambling from this guy, Natasha noted silently. She stared flatley at him, unimpressed. “Not currently.”

He breathed out heavily, laughing with relief. “Oh, that’s great. So, I’m on the clock and all. You don’t mind if I-” he motioned to the car beside him, and the small, beaten up toolbox at his feet.

“Carry on.”

He dropped back to the pavement, turning his attention back to fiddling with the lock and doing something with a metal wire- she didn’t care to know what. Best not get involved. She turned her back to it, leaning against the back of the vehicle. 

“So, uh, what can I do for you?” he asked, less hesitant this time.

She didn’t bother with the usual build up. By time security made the next round she wanted to be long gone. “I want you to find someone.”

She heard his work come to an abrupt halt. “What?”

“I want you,” she repeated, each syllable intentional and leaving no room for error, “to find someone.”

“Uh, okay…” Lang continued, and a second later she heard a click, and the lights flashed as the door unlocked. “I’m not really, I mean I can find just about anything, you name it and I’ll get it. But people… I’m not really the guy-”

She inhaled slowly, cocking her head to the side as if willing for patience. Not that she was lacking in it. She’d found that Lang was far more efficient when operating under the assumption that she could and would do him physical harm. 

“-but I can totally do that. That’s cool. I know plenty of people, I can ask around, I’m good at that, I’ve got-”

“Lang if I didn’t think you were capable then I wouldn’t be here,” she interrupted. She reached into her overcoat and could practically feel him tense behind her. What she pulled out was a sealed envelope however, setting it down on the back of the sports car. “The name and the first installment of your finder’s fee is in here, along with the number you can reach me with when you’ve found him.”

There was a pause. “Um, yeah,” he breathed out, “okay.”

She stood up, readjusted her coat, already walking away. “Oh, and Scott?” she said as she looked back over her shoulder, smiling sweetly.

He looked thoroughly unnerved, poking his head out of the open driver’s door. “Um, yeah?”

“If Loki finds out anyone is looking for him, I  _ will  _ hold you personally responsible.”


	6. Travel Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this is a week late. All I can say is midterms and drama. Also, I recognize that you probably came here for the criminal shenanigans and as of thus far there haven't been many criminal shenanigans, but I promise that picks up with next chapter (which I already have outlined in detail, so hopefully I'll be able to stick to my two week schedule this time).

Fact: airports suck.

_ “CCTV on your left, above the Starbucks.”  _

Tony’s voice in his ear made it worse. 

He adjusted the duffel bag he had thrown over his shoulder, the only luggage he brought with him. He traveled light.

“Stark, I’ve been dodging security checks in airports for a long time. Long enough to not need you to narrate where  _ every goddamn camera is _ ,” he muttered under his breath, only resisting snapping at him to avoid looking like a crazy person. 

He was alone as he wound his way through the crowd, keeping his ball cap tilted low over his face, ducking in with groups of slow-moving tourists, and using conveniently placed displays and the potted small trees running down the middle of the wide central thoroughfare of the terminal. And he’d already clocked that camera as soon as he rounded the corner. And the one before that. And the one before that.

But Steve had insisted, and kept on insisting, that no one take any chances. Apparently, not taking chances involved Tony accessing each of the security cameras in each of the eleven different airports (some of them took connecting flights) the seven of them had filtered through on their separate ways into various places in Western Europe over the last week, making sure they avoided any potential facial recognition. Even if, in Bucky’s opinion, being caught on camera only ever mattered if some agency was, first of all, already looking for you, and secondly, if they actually had a face to compare yours to. Neither of those, to any of their knowledge, were the case. Besides, avoiding security cameras was easy. Basically second nature. Any of them could’ve probably done it in their sleep.

What probably pissed Bucky off more though was that Tony had decided to hack his way into a private jet into Europe. Everyone else would have to deal with cramped legroom, children kicking the backs of their seats, connections, layovers, and yes, lying, forging, faking, and slipping their ways through security checkpoints while avoiding the myriad of cameras. Typical.

Bucky wasn’t saying it was especially hard, but he also wasn’t saying that he hadn’t gotten in and out of terrorist cell bunkers with less hassle. 

_ “Woah, chill dude,”  _ Tony urged.  _ “I’m just following orders.” _

Biting back a retort, Bucky fished his cell phone out of his pocket and lifted it to his ear so at least he could properly yell at Tony without looking like he was talking to himself.

_ “Steve feels very strongly about this. And there’s another above the-” _

“Above the vending machines, I know. And on the ceiling by the baggage claim sign. And by the bathrooms. And a hell of a lot more between me and the departure gate. I’m aware. Anything I don’t know?” 

_ “Well, actually, don’t look now, but I think someone’s following you.” _

Bucky inhaled sharply, but he didn’t change his pace, and he didn’t look. “How many? Give me a description.” He adjusted his direction to walk nearer the duty-free shop, intending to check the reflection over his shoulder along the length of the strip of decorative dark tinted glass along the wall.

_ “Just one. An old lady with a walker. She’s definitely checking out your ass right n-” _

All of the frustration he’d felt for the last hour and seventeen minutes since he’d first gotten to the airport and had been putting up with  _ this  _ finally hit the tipping point. He took a steady breath. “Stark-”

_ “Again, we should really use code names over the c-” _

“Next time I see you, I gonna break something. You pick which limb. Just let me know.” 

With that he pulled the comm out of his ear, turned off his phone, and shoved both into his pocket. He didn’t need anyone else in his head at the moment. Steve would probably be pissed if Tony tattled on him, sure, but Steve was going to have to take the kid gloves off eventually.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

When the flight attendants finally let them off the plane after touching down in Germany, Bucky breathed a sigh of relief. He was fine. Claustrophobia was not his friend, but he was fine. The difficult part was over. 

Of course, there was still customs to get through, and there would be explaining away all the metal bits in his shoulder and upper arm from half a dozen reconstructive surgeries when it came to the metal detectors.But his ID and passport would hold (they were solid pieces of work, he’d used them before with no trouble), and he didn’t actually have anything illegal on him. No weapons, and the most suspicious thing he had on him, the earpiece, blended right in on all the scans with all the electronic inner-workings of the slightly altered digital camera in his bag (very handy, he’d had it for a while and it had never let him down). 

And because he was doing fine, and because Stark had repeatedly demonstrated himself to be one of those people that Bucky could just  _ not _ , he decided Steve’s whole idea about Tony and the cameras in all the airports was unnecessary and overprotective and he was perfectly capable of getting through and out of an airport on his own.

And he did. He got to the exit no problem, the dozens of automatic doors open to the frigid evening air, hundreds of people weighed down with every type of baggage hurrying out into the five different lanes of idling vehicles as they waited to be waved down by friends or family picking them up or they waved down a taxi themselves instead.

Everything was fine, right up to the point that he realized he had no idea what the plan was next regarding him getting from an airport in Munich, Germany, to Vienna, Austria, which was, well, he figured to look up how far of a drive that was he’d have to actually turn on his cell phone and look it up. Speaking of plans, yes, it occurred to him that turning on his cell phone and checking in was probably the best way to figure that out.

Excellent. Problem solving. He refused to let any of this affect his unusually good mood because everything was fine. And that was always better than the alternative.

He parked himself in a camera blindspot off to the side and out of the way of the worst foot traffic to figure thing out. 

Thirty-two missed text messages. Three missed calls. Unusually good mood slipping. Jesus Christ, had someone died?

When he saw that all of them were from Clint however, that fear died immediately. 

Bucky couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He scrolled through quickly, grinning at how very ‘Clint’ they were. There wasn’t another word for it. He’d known the guy for all of three weeks, but given that he’d been spending hours of almost every day with him (and, with everyone else too of course) over the course of the last two, it took less than half that time to figure out that he was a label unto himself. 

_ ‘hey do you want food??’ _

_ ‘I mean will you want food’ _

_ ‘when you land’ _

_ ‘bc I kinda do’ _

_ ‘context: I flew into Nürnberg this morning, I’m supposed to pick you up on the way’ _

Well, that answered that. Clint went on to weigh the merits of various food options and to ask his preference, and went on something of a tangent warning him off airport food for the fact that it’s overpriced and tried to kill him once, before apparently he failed to make an executive decision due to Bucky’s radio silence.

_ ‘well I guess I’ll just wait until after you get here’ _

_ ‘dear god man pick up your phone’ _

_ ‘or else I’ll go eat without you’ _

_ ‘answer’ _

_ ‘your’ _

_ ‘p’ _

_ ‘h’ _

_ ‘o’ _

_ ‘n’ _

_ ‘e’ _

And a sad face emoji.

Then some time later according to the time stamp:

_ ‘it just occured to me youre probably in the air still lol’  _ with an emoji of, what might’ve supposed to be a grimacing face? 

_ ‘so... just text me when you land’ _

According to the time stamps his patience lasted for all of about an hour, ending with a string of text messages, the last of which came just a few minutes ago.

_ ‘dude’ _

_ ‘duuuuuuuuude’ _

_ ‘are you here yet?’ _

_ ‘you should be here already’ _

_ ‘were you picked up by security?’ _

_ ‘feds waiting for you at the gate?’ _

_ ‘you need me to bust you out?’ _

_ ‘are you alive?’ _

_ ‘I know customs takes a while but not this long’ _

_ ‘dude I checked and your flight landed over an hour ago I swear to god I’m about to come in there after you ’ _

_ ‘I called Tony and you went radio silent??? dumbass pick up the phone right now I’m not fucking around here _

Yeah, no, that wasn’t necessary. Problem was, he had no idea if Clint meant it or not. He was about to type back a reply when Clint sent another message.

_ ‘hey ANSWER YOUR GODDAMN PHONE BARNES I have been WAITING in this damn parking lot forever, I’m going to kick your ass if you do not answer me in the next 60 seconds I swear to god’ _

He laughed at that.  _ ‘I’d like to see you try’ _

Rather then get another text, his phone rang almost immediately.

_ “You fucker,”  _ Clint swore as soon as he answered the call.  _ “I hate you. I really, really do. You could’ve been dead for all I knew, and then you know who’d get blamed? Me. Goddammit, who thought this was a good idea anyway?” _

Bucky laughed. “Well, that hurts my feelings. Good to hear from you too,” he said, failing to keep the amusement out of his voice.

He heard Clint sigh heavily.  _ “Barnes, just get yourself and your shit outside. I’ll be in the third lane, can’t miss me.” _

“Wait,” Bucky said, “what car am I looking-” Clint hung up. “-for. Well, that’s great. Thanks.”

He shoved the phone in his pocket, threw his duffel back over his shoulder, and melded with the exiting crowd again until he was standing on the platform outside. Leaning against one of the concrete pillars, he kept an eye on the slow flow of vehicles in the third lane, starting and stopping and pulling over to the curb to pick up travelers, and trying to figure out which was Clint until-

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, Barton,” he cursed under his breath.

He pushed off the pillar, walking quickly as he weaved around people and cars to where Clint was scowling at him from the rolled down driver’s window of a dark purple Aston Martin that looked fresh off the lot.

“Get in, asshole,” Clint called out at him when he got closer. He glared ahead, purposefully avoiding eye contact.

Bucky ignored that comment, coming right up next to his window and leaning in close, keeping his voice low. “Clint, tell me you didn’t-”

“Didn’t what? Get in the car.”

“Tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”

“Barnes, we’ve got four and a half hours to talk all you’d like, but I’d like to get going now so get in the-”

“Not if I’m about to become complicit to a felony,” Bucky said, keeping his voice low.

Clint looked at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? I’m not a  _ complete  _ idiot, okay?” he said, rolling his eyes. “Now please get in the damn car and then I can explain, unless you’d like to hang around here all night.”

The hair-on-end feeling that came with the thought of too many eyes on him quickly began to outweigh the need to get a straight answer out of Clint, so he gave up on that front and came around the car to get in the passenger seat, throwing his bag into the back seat. As soon as he had the door closed Clint put the car and drive and they were pulling out, perhaps a little more aggressively than was necessary.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Clint asked about his luggage. He ignored him.

“Tell me you didn’t steal this car,” Bucky pleaded. 

Clint just looked coldy impassive, mouth a flat line, his eyes not straying from the road. He was definitely pissed, or something. It was plenty clear that he wasn’t joking about anything. There was none of his usual light amiability about him, only the hard lines of his clenched jaw and furrowed brow, his posture rigid. “I didn’t steal this car,” he parroted back, deadpan.

“Yeah, that doesn’t tell me anything. The truth please.”

“I didn’t steal it,” Clint snapped, no longer verging on offended but already there. “Calm the hell down, I only borrowed it.” Bucky inhaled sharply, but Clint cut him off before he could say anything. “ _ With consent, _ I swear to god, Barnes. When I tell you I didn’t steal, I  _ did not fucking steal it _ .” That time he glanced sideways at him, glaring bitterly.

This wasn’t a fight that Bucky wanted to pick. “Okay, okay, I believe you,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “It’s just-” he struggled with the words for a second before thinking better of it- “nevermind,” he said, dropping it. 

Clint snorted in frustration, rolling his eyes. “No, fine, a reasonable assumption to jump to I guess.”

Bucky sighed, pained. “No, I mean-”

“I get it Barnes,” Clint interrupted. “I’m not mad. I steal shit, I get it, and I don’t really care.”

“It’s not like I think you’re a kleptomaniac or anything,” Bucky tried to course correct. It- yeah, that didn’t help. 

“Well that’s great,” Clint said, not entirely enthused. “Thanks.”

“Oh come on, you don’t get to be pissed at me.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not,” Clint said more firmly, but his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel said otherwise.

“Yeah you are,” Bucky corrected. “Is this because I thought you stole the car or because I didn’t answer your texts?”

“Fuck off,” Clint warned. “I wasn’t before but I’m getting there pretty quickly.”

Bucky took a minute to fully assess the situation. Something he was missing. People. He was supposed to be good at people. Usually he was. Just not with this person, apparently. 

“I’m sorry I asked, okay. I was being paranoid, I- airports do that to me, okay?” That was partly true, he wasn’t lying. Mostly it was being caged in a metal cylinder hurtling through the air along with way too many other people for far too many hours, but it was true enough. “Plus, okay, tell me that this  _ isn’t  _ something you would steal. I mean, down to the paint job, it’s right up your alley.”

“What the hell is  _ that  _ supposed to mean?”

“It’s shiny it’s stupid fast and it’s worth at least a million dollars.”

“Okay, newsflash asshole,” he growled, only getting louder and angrier as he continued, “contrary to what  _ seems  _ to be public opinion, I’m not  _ actually  _ stupid enough to ask for the kind of heat that comes with stealing a million dollar car,  _ right in the middle _ of the biggest goddamn job we’ve ever done.”

“Okay, fine, stop fucking yelling, I’m sitting right next to you,” Bucky snapped. “If it’s not that, then I’m sorry that I had my phone turned off. We were delayed getting off the plane and the line through customs was a bitch and a half.

“Well that explains it,” Clint muttered, still bitter as hell. Bucky noticed it again, his left hand tightening and relaxing his grip, fingers nervously tapping away at the edge of the steering wheel on interval. 

Something else occurred to him. “Okay, you didn’t  _ actually  _ think I’d gotten arrested or anything, did you?”

“What?” Clint asked, a little too loud, shifting a little too uncomfortably. “No, of course not.”

“Uh-huh, sure” he said. He took a breath. Then, a little more sympathetic this time, even if it did seem like he was being an ass for no reason, “You’re a shit liar, you know that, Barton?”

“And you’re a huge dick, you know that Barnes?” he snapped back, every line of him painfully rigid. “Okay, you know what? Yeah. I’m a little bit pissed off now. Thanks. And now I’ve gotta be in the car with you for hours,” Clint said, laughing, but clearly finding nothing funny about it. “So you know what? Fuck you.”

Bucky was a little taken aback by the direction this took, he’d admit. “You know, usually I’d agree with that, but in this case, no, I really don’t think I am-”

“No? Well. It’s a good thing I don’t really care what you think.”

“Okay, see, that’s not how to peacefully settle a conflict. Not by insulting and swearing at people, not by refusing to listen-”

“Nope, we’re not arguing anymore,” he said, sounding suddenly a lot calmer, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. He took another shallow breath, the air hissing between his teeth. “We are forgetting about it and shutting up for the next hour at least.”

“Clint, that’s not how this works,” he sighed.

Clint laughed dryly. “ _ James _ , I say it  _ is  _ how this works. I’m driving,” he declared. He had a deathgrip on the wheel. “When you’re driving, you get to pick the rules. Until then-” Another shaky breath. 

This hadn’t looked good for a while now. But now, Bucky realized, no, this definitely didn’t look good.

“Clint-” Bucky tried, softer, as inoffensive as possible.

“ _ Until then _ -”

“Hey, okay,” he said, surrendering. “Okay.”

“Good.”

A was quiet for a minute. “Can you just do one thing for me though?”

“What,” he snapped, damn near quaking, “could you possibly want?”.

“Can you pull over please?”

“Why?”

“Because, now everything’s fine-”

“Then w-”

“- but you’re halfway to a panic attack,” he said gently.

Clint didn’t say anything. He inhaled again, shallow and unstable, and visibly tried to slow down his breathing, but without much effect. “Damnit,” he swore, quiet and breathless.

“Hey, it’s okay-”

“Shut the fuck up,” he rasped, no venom behind it this time. He let up his grip on the wheel, his hands only shaking a little, and a couple seconds later he was pulling off the main road. 

Bucky didn’t say anything after that.

The freeway they’d been on had no other purpose, nothing around it, except for the airport at one end and Munich on the other, so it was mostly fields that lay fallow for the winter and patches of trees that melded with a small town between the airfield and the city proper. There wasn’t much. A gas station with two other cars stopped at the far side of the pumps, a fast food chain that he didn’t recognize, and some sort of tiny convenience store with a few makeshift stalls set up in its parking lot with hand painted plywood signs advertising locally grown vegetables. There were only a couple people there, and they looked to be closing up shop.

Clint turned a little sharper, a little faster than Bucky would’ve liked into the nearest parking lot- the fast food place- and pulled the car into the far corner before bringing it to a sharp stop. The next thing Bucky knew Clint was out of the car and slamming the door behind him. He didn’t go far, just taking a few steps toward the back of the car, stopping at the back wheel and sliding down to sit on the ground, out of sight.

Bucky didn’t get out after him, not immediately. Instead he leaned over to turn off the ignition and he waited. He figured he owed Clint a minute or two of space. He was going to give him as many as many as he needed.

He knew there was no point in blaming himself- it wouldn’t be a productive use of time or energy- but that didn’t stop him. Not one bit.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Barnes,” he cursed himself. He knew better. He knew  _ Clint  _ better. He knew from a hell of a lot of context clues and the off-handed, throwaway disparaging remarks Clint himself was prone to making that the guy had his own problems. The least he could’ve,  _ should have  _ done was try to be cognizant of that and realize a little sooner that something was wrong.

Taking his hat off and throwing it up on the dash, he got out of the car, closing the door quietly and taking a look around. If the car had peaked any of the few bystanders’ interests when they’d pulled in, nobody seemed interested now. And it was parked at a distance and angled in such a way that, on the driver’s side, it provided some degree of privacy. That was probably for the best. 

Walking around the front of the car, Bucky found Clint where he last lost sight of him. He was sitting on the sparse, gravel-strewn grass and leaning back against the wheel, his knees pulled up close to his chest, head down, and elbows on his knees with his hands clasped behind his neck. Bucky stopped a few feet away and took a seat, leaning back against the door of the car. He kept a comfortable distance between them, drawing from personal experience.

“Hey, you gonna be alright?” he asked after another minute, not impatient, but not wanting to be the asshole who didn’t show any sort of concern either.

Clint took a deep breath, more steady than before. “My head will stop ringing in a minute,” he mumbled to the ground, not looking up. “Then I’ll put my ears back in and hear whatever you’re saying.”

That seemed fair. 

Bucky glanced sideways at him and saw that the usual flash of purple plastic behind his ears was missing. Resigned to wait, he tilted his head back against the car, resting his eyes closed. They stayed that way maybe ten minutes, thought it only lasted as long as the wind stayed manageable. Next thing he knew the breeze had picked up, and having abandoned his baseball cap, his hair got swept up in it and no amount of trying to tuck it behind his ears was successful in keeping it in check.

It had gotten longer over the last year- too long according to Steve, not that he ever had the guts to say anything about it- until it was just past his jawline and tickled the back of his neck. A long enough to pull back kind of long. He really needed to get in the habit of keeping a rubberband on his wrist or something.

Speak of the devil… Bucky looked over when he felt a tap at his elbow, silently offering a black hairband. 

“Um, thanks?” He took it, trying not to overthink it, and went back to wrestling his hair out of his eyes.

“Nat leaves them laying around my place,” Clint said, a little too quiet to hear easily above the distant traffic. He sounded more tired than anything. He had his arms wrapped around one knee, resting his forehead against it. He slowly stretch his other leg stretch out in front of him. Reaching into the pocket of his hoodie, he retrieved one of his aids and slowly, carefully tucked it back into place, then the other. “I try and get ‘em back to her but I always forget, so I’ve usually got a couple on me at any given time. Bobby pins too, but those aren’t Nat’s. Good for unlocking things...”

Bucky was just glad he was talking rather than shutting down, even if it was the rambling he was prone to. But then, Clint wasn’t him. He hummed in consideration. “I’ve tried ‘em before, hair pins. For unlocking things, that is,” he added. “Were always a little too small to really work for me.”

Clint nodded slightly in agreement, still hugging his knee to his chest. “Practice helps. But mostly they’re good because they’re much easier to hide on yourself, and if someone does find it, it looks a lot less criminal that a lockpick set. Easier to explain.”

“Huh, didn’t think about that,” Bucky said, nodding and conceding the point. “I guess that you and I work from very different... angles,” Bucky decided on the word.

Clint thought about that for a minute, resting his chin on his knee and frowning at the darkening treeline. “What?”

He shrugged a shoulder, running a hand through his hair to push the loose strands out of his eyes. “I mean, give me some duct tape, a crowbar, and a pocket knife and I can solve just about all my problems. But you use hair pins and refrigerator magnets and shit. It’s interesting is all.”

“Hm, I guess.” 

A few quiet minutes passed before Bucky spoke up again. “So, you gonna be okay?”

He shrugged awkwardly after a moment, still hugging his knees loosely to his chest. “Don’t see why I shouldn’t be.”

“You don’t have to be, not right away,” Bucky added.

Clint mumbled something indecipherable under his breath, turning his head to the side away from Bucky and resting his temple on his knee, and then didn’t say anything at all. 

“You know, you shouldn’t blame yourself for not seeing it coming,” Bucky said, keeping his tone conversational. He was really only trying to fill up the silence between them. “And really, you handled it pretty well.”

Clint sighed heavily, straightening up and letting his head fall back lightly against the car, eyes closed. “Shut up, Barnes,” he said quietly, but if it was possible to sound like he didn’t really mean it, he did.

“What, all I’m saying is that you didn’t get violent and you didn’t shut down completely, which is more than I can say. I mean really, you didn’t even get all the way there. Just about half way. And-”

Clint turned to face him, looking unimpressed. “Do you ever stop talking? I have a headache and you’re not helping.”

“Ha,” Bucky laughed blandly. “That’s awful hypocritical of you. But yeah, that headache’s a bitch, isn’t it? Apparently has something to do with your heart rate skyrocketing and the flood of adrenaline..” Clint narrowed his eyes a fraction. “I googled it one time. What, you think you’re all that special, Barton?” As if he were the only person in the world to ever get hit with a measly old panic attack. Bucky scoffed. “Get over yourself.”

What he was saying didn’t go over Clint’s head. “I still hate you,” he grumbled though.

“I’ll allow it,” Bucky said, grinning, “for now.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the gas station. “You good for a minute?”

Clint hummed his agreement, letting his head roll back against the car and his eyes drift shut again. 

“Okay, don’t go anywhere. Be back in a minute.” 

When he got back a few minutes later, Clint was right where he left him. He dropped one of the water bottles he’d bought beside him, dropping the bag with everything else in the car.

“Take it,” he said, nudging Clint’s ankle with his foot. “It’ll help.”

Clint grunted his thanks, picking up the water bottle, even if he only fidgeted with it, spinning it around slowly in his hands. He took a slow breath, working himself up to saying something.

“I jump to the worst possible outcomes,” he said, staring ahead at the ragged treeline. “Like, beat all the odds, winning the lottery of bad luck kind of outcomes. And, logically, I know that doesn’t make sense, but-” He paused, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat when the words stopped working. 

“I get that,” Bucky said, nodding. “I mean, I think I do.”

“And I-” he swallowed dryly. “It’s not so much a really believing it, sort of thing, ‘cause like I said I know that- It’s just, more of a not,” he paused, working his jaw for a moment. “Not,  _ knowing _ . It’s that. And, not knowing what to do.” He felt silent after that.

Bucky knew this wasn’t about him, and that making it about him would be an asshole thing to do, but the wave of guilt hit him like a punch to the gut. 

“Okay,” Clint said, surprising him. “Now I think would be a good time for changing topics. And we both know that you’re so good a those,” he said, his smile smile a little forced.

“Hm, okay. But, you know I’ve gotta ask.” 

Clint blinked blearily at him, cocking his head to the side. “Ask what?”

“Where’d the car come from?”

Clint closed his eyes, shaking his head silently for a moment. “You really have a way of sucking all the fun out of things. Even this.”

“Come on, I mean it, I want to know,” he said. “What sort of friends do you have that let you borrow a million dollar sports car when you just happen to be in the country?”

He sighed, took a deep breath. “It’s really pretty simple. I know a guy. His name’s Peter. But he goes by a lot of really stupid names. He and his crew work internationally in, call it procurement.  Mostly in dangerous shit that I don’t mess with, but he’s got some pretty cool rides. Usually it’ll cost you an arm or a leg to get a favor out of ‘em, but he  _ is  _ alive right now because of me. So he let me borrow it.”

“Huh,” Bucky mused. “I need to get me some friends like that.”

“I think calling him a friend would be a stretch,” he said, twisting the cap off the plastic bottle. “Just business.”

It was getting darker still, the sun having already disappeared over the treetops and the last pale streaks of color fading to dark blue hues. It must have been about nearing 7 PM local time by Bucky’s reckoning. For the first week of October it was unseasonably warm still, or at least it had been. 

A particularly sharp gust of wind swept across the ground, picking up the dead autumn leaves and biting sharply. For the most part Bucky wasn’t bothered by the cold, but Clint ducked his face out of the wind, buried in his forearms, and shivered nearly head to toe. Still, he didn’t make as if to move.

“We don’t have to go anywhere yet, but you can get back in the car if you’re cold,” Bucky advised, glancing over at him.

Clint crossed his arms tighter to stave off the shivering and took a sharp breath. He only had a thin hoodie that probably stood up like a straw house against the wind, but Bucky wasn’t sure how much of it was actually due to the cold. “No.”

“No?” he asked, surprised. “Don’t be stubborn now.”

“I’m not,” Clint said, sounding a little pained, his eyes still fixed on the patch of dirt and gravel in front of him. “I- can’t, right now.”

Bucky got that, humming in understanding. “Claustrophobia not your friend?”

He sighed, setting the water down beside him and rubbing his eyes. “No, not my friend.”

“Okay,” Bucky said. “I get that.” He reached up to grab the door handle above him and used it to help pull himself to his feet. Then he shrugged off his leather jacket before stepping over to Clint and dropping it around his shoulders. 

He snapped his head up, looking first at the jacket, wide-eyed like he didn’t understand what was going on, then narrowing his eyes at Bucky. “No. Take it back.”

“No thanks,” Bucky declined, smiling and quite pleased with himself.

“Barnes,” he tried to warn him, but he came off far too much like a kicked puppy. If anything it hurt his case, from Bucky’s perspective. And oh man, the déjà vu of seeing tiny busted up and bruised Stevie crumpled up on the playground hit Bucky hard. Nope, definitely not taking it back.

“You’re cold,” he said, like that should have ended the conversation.

“I’m fine. It’s your jacket, and you’re standing out here too because of me,” he objected, shoving the jacket back at Bucky, but he only stepped away, still leaning against the side of the car.

“There’s nothing stopping me from getting in the car if I get cold. And enough with the self-deprecating comments,” Bucky complained, rolling his eyes. “You act like nobody else has ever almost had a panic attack before.”

Clint narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re just-”

Bucky closed the few feet distance between them, cutting an imposing figure as he crossed his arms, grey henley rolled up to his elbows, frowning down at Clint. “Suck it up, buttercup. And put it on before I make you.”

“I  _ can’t  _ wear this,” Clint made one last attempt. “I refuse to.”

“You’re still shivering, Clint. You’re trying to hide it and you’re failing. Miserably”

“Black leather is not my aesthetic, okay? It works for you, don’t get me wrong. It works  _ really  _ well for you. But I-”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me right now,” Bucky complained, losing patience. “You’re way worse than Steve.” He dropped down to crouch next to him, taking his jacket from Clint’s hands and draping it over his shoulders again, but this time he threw respecting personal space out the window and wrestled with him- surprising Clint, who squawked in protest and tried to squirm away- until he get his arms in it.

He looked rather put off, glaring darkly at him like Bucky had personally rained on his parade, and swearing up a storm under his breath. What didn’t help his attempt at menacing was that the jacket was too big on him, at the shoulders and the sleeve length, so he looked a little ridiculous as he crossed his arms huffily. Deeply amused and grinning widely, Bucky leaned over to zip it for him, and that was the last straw for Clint.

“Oh fuck you, Barnes. Get the fuck off of me, you jackass,” he swore as he tried to shove Bucky off of him, without much effect.

“Are you gonna get in the car?” Bucky asked again.

“No,” he muttered, remarkably petulant. 

“Okay. Then looks like you an’ me get some quality time out here, sitting in the dirt together,” Bucky said, still grinning. “Now zip that up before you catch something.”

“I  _ hate  _ you,” Clint swore. “I hate you so fucking much.”

Bucky just threw an arm around his shoulder. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

“I do,” Clint insisted, but for all his swearing and protesting, he slumped into Bucky’s side, curling inward and burying himself further into his unwillingly-borrowed jacket. “I hate you so much, Barnes, you have no idea.”

“If you say so,” Bucky brushed it off, pulling Clint closer in. 

“I do.”

“Uh-huh, sure. And can you cut it out with that that?”

“With what?” he mumbled.

“Calling me Barnes,” he said. “I don’t call you Barton all the time. And if you’re excuse is we’re not that good of friends yet, take a look around our current situation and get back to me on that.”

“Uh,” Clint hesitated. “Okay. Fine. James then.”

“Ugh,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Only my mother and Natasha call me that. And Steve when I’ve really fucked up. And you are none of those people.”

“Well, looks like Terminator it is then,” Clint said, shrugging, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That was barely funny the first time.”

“What are you talking about? That was hilarious.”

“No, not so much,” Bucky corrected.

“Yeah huh.”

“Nuh uh. Oh, and by the way, I’m driving.”

Clint scowled at him, dark enough to make him a little bit proud. “No. Definitely not.”

“You’re kidding right?”

“No. I’m not.”

“So you want to drive?”

He hesitated, his expression dropping into mournful. “No,” he muttered. 

“You do realize that one of us has to, right?”

He glared at the ground for a moment. “I didn’t think that far ahead.” Bucky bit his lip hard, stopping himself from laughing, but he couldn’t help his shoulders from shaking with it. “Damnit, I hate you, Bucky. I really do.”

“I guess I hate you too then.”

“Okay, glad we’re on the same page.”

“Yeah, me too. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“A quick change scam,” Clint declared. “That’s easy. Anyone can do it.”

Bucky shook his head. “Ha, no. Try again.”

“Uh, a wire con?” he asked. “I mean, you can pull that off in just about any sports bar. Just takes a buddy, a walkie-talkie, and some starter cash.”

“Nope. Never actually done one of those.”

“Really?” Clint asked, shifting in his seat to look at him more directly. “Huh. They’re pretty fun. I ran one with Nat and this other lady one time- you wouldn’t know her,” he waved it away dismissively, “but you should definitely get in on one some time.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Bucky said. “Keep guessing.”

“Um, okay, okay. Lemme think,” Clint said, scratching his chin. He thought quietly for a minute. “Let’s see, you probably ran it with Steve, right? You two go back.”

“I’m not giving you hints,” Bucky repeated for the fourth time. “So quit trying.”

“Aw, come on Buck. Please?” Clint asked, pouting and giving him that kicked puppy look. “Just tell me if I’m right.”

Bucky really hated the kicked puppy look. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Fine. Yeah, it was with Steve.”

“Awesome,” Clint said, having a mini celebration on his side of the car. “Were you older or younger than fifteen?”

“ _ No more hints _ ,” Bucky warned him. 

“Fine,” Clint scoffed, crossing his arms and sticking his feet back up on the dashboard. Bucky gave up on scolding him for that over an hour ago. “Some sorta fiddle game?”

“You think Steve and I thought anything through as much as it takes to run a fiddle game? Come on,” Bucky said, feigning disappointment.

“Well you know what, you’re not giving me a whole lot to work with,” Clint complained. “How the hell am I supposed to know what your first con was? That’s like- there’s a million of ‘em!”

“Oh please, I guessed yours in under two minutes. You’re just bad at this,” Bucky countered, grinning.

“Oh don’t even,” Clint said, scowling. “How freaking hard is it to guess that my first was a double blind? I mean, any halfway decent pick pocket had tried a double blind.”

“So what are you saying, Barton? That you’re too predictable or you just never tried hard enough?”

“Screw you, man. I’m saying you’re tricky is all. Give me a break,” he muttered.

Bucky laughed. “Sorry, no more hints. But you’ve got like-” he checked the time- “almost two more hours to figure it out.”

Clint took a deep breath, scrubbing both hands over his face. “Okay, okay, your first con.” He hesitated for a moment. “A double back?”

“Nope.”

“The Vegas wake-up call?” he asked, wincing already like he predicted Bucky’s reaction.

“The- Are you fuckin’ kidding me? The Vegan wake-up call? The Ve- I cannot believe you right now, oh my god. What the hell kind of person do you take me for?” he asked in disbelief. 

Clint had squirmed as far away from him in his seat as he could manage. “Sorry, sorry, I just- I’m trying to cover all my bases is all,” he tried to explain, looking thoroughly chastised. 

“And- dear god, I mean,  _ me _ ? Fine,  _ I guess _ . But  _ Steve _ ? Steve Rogers participating in a Vegas wake-up call? Do you even know him?”

“Okay, well, let me clarify by saying I figured you two would’ve gotten someone else- and not to be sexist or anything, but I assumed a generically attractive female- to play the dead hooker in the bed.”

Bucky looked at him at a genuine loss for words for as long as he could take his eyes off the road. “You- I- I mean you-” He stopped trying. Clint braced for it, but Bucky just took a breath, baffled. “You know, I should hope so, Clint.” And then, as sarcastic as possible, “It’s great to know you think so very highly of me.”

Clint tried to look apologetic. “So… so I keep guessing or are you gonna tell me?”

He sighed. “If you give up, I’ll tell you.”

“Of course I give up,” Clint said. “I mean, for all I know you and Steve were running a Ponzi scheme out the back of the PTA bake sale.”

“Well…” 

“You’re kidding me right?” Clint said, so very over it. “Please tell me your first was not a Ponzi scheme or else I’m going to feel utterly out of my depth here.”

Smiling, Bucky shook his head. “No, it wasn’t a Ponzi scheme. I’d bet that was Tony’s though.”

“You know what,” Clint said, thinking about it, “yeah, I think I can see that. But don’t try and change the topic. Tell me.”

“Fine. It was a reverse rip deal.”

“What!?” Clint yelled, suddenly incapable of keeping his shit together. He scrambled up in his seat, taking his feet off the dash and somehow managing to almost slide out of his seat completely as folded his legs under him, staring at Bucky wide-eyed, mouth agape. “You and Steve did  _ not  _ pull a  _ reverse rip deal _ . You are lying to my face right now. I cannot believe you. I cannot-”

“Hey, I’m not lying,” Bucky insisted. “That’s the truth. Live with it.”

“Absolutely fuckin’ not. What kind of sociopaths were you? I mean, how old were you two?”

“Uh, I don’t know, I think I was around ten or eleven. And Steve’s a year younger,” Bucky said, trying to recall.

Clint was silent for a moment, though his expression was an interesting mix of disbelief, doubt, frustration, and the result of some sort of brain circuit malfunction. “You, are telling me,” he said slowly, trying to wrap his head around it, “that in the fourth grade, you and Steve ran a reverse rip deal?”

“Correct,” Bucky said, nodding once in agreement. He managed to keep a straight face too.

“Who the hell was  _ your mark _ ?”

“Hm, I remember him to this day. His name was Baron Zemo-”

“Well that’s a dumbass name,” Clint interrupted.

“And he was a dumbass kid.”

“Wait, what?”

“Our mark was the playground bully.”

“Oh,” Clint said, still confused, but a moment later it hit him. “ _ Oh _ , hold on, that’s cheating,” he said, indignant. “That doesn’t count.”

“What the hell not?”

“Because, I mean, you definitely didn’t know that a rip deal was even a thing back then, right? And certainly not the reverse. I mean, if we’re counting that sort of thing then my first was, hell,” he thought about it for a minute, “mine would be a lost heir.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at that. “Huh, that’s a story I’d like to hear.”

“Yeah, and I’d tell you,  _ if it counted _ . Which it doesn’t. For it to be your first con, you have to  _ know  _ that it’s a con. You can’t just look back later and say, oh, that thing I did in the fourth grade kinda fits with this think I know about now.”

“Then I guess Steve and I were just before our times,” Bucky said, shrugging, but he was only baiting Clint at this point.

“Oh, right, because you two were some sorta criminal prodigies. Real evil geniuses. Probably started a tiny toddler mob in the daycare, right? Had your own tricycle gang on the playground?” Bucky tried to interrupt, say something to back him down, but there was no stopping him. “You know what,” Clint said, continuing and still rather ticked off about it, “I bet you had all the babysitters wrapped around your pudgy little fingers in some sort of protection racket. You did, didn’t you? What was the deal? ‘We’ll make sure nobody revolts at nap time today if you fork over fifteen percent more time in the sand box’?”

“Yes, that’s exactly right, Clint. You nailed it. Dead on.”

“Oh, now you’re being sarcastic. I see how it is. Clearly, we won’t be able to reach an agreement here, so we’ll just have to agree to disagree about this whole, what counts as your first con thing,” Clint said, ending their ridiculous argument but making sure Bucky knew that he was still disgruntled about it, rolling his eyes and sighing loudly. 

“Way to be the bigger man,” Bucky congratulated him, going to pat him on the shoulder but Clint jerked back, swatting his hand away with a few muttered choice words and a ‘don’t you dare’ warning look.

Eventually though, his curiosity got the better of him after a few minutes of sitting in silence. “That aside, what were you even selling? In this reverse rip deal of yours.”

“Hall passes. Steve made ‘em.”

Clint laughed. “Of course he did. What’d you take this kid for? And before you answer, if you say his lunch money I swear to god I-”

He didn’t even try and stop the smirk that was curling the corners of his mouth. He shot Clint a sly look, feeling far too pleased with himself for his own good. He didn’t care. Clint was- this was, good. Good, Bucky decided. They were good. And it was different. In all honesty, he couldn’t remember jumping between such opposite ends of the spectrum- between handling borderline crisis to ridiculous friendly banter- so fluidly and, not awkwardly, with another person who wasn’t Steve in his life. 

“No, Barnes, no. I can’t- I don’t- no.” The poor guy looked lost, dropping his head into his hands. “That’s bullshit. I can’t even with you.”

And Clint definitely wasn’t Steve. From everything about him to how Bucky felt about him, Clint was not Steve. 

“You’re just jealous,” he said, not even trying to rein in the smug smirk.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Oh, hey Tasha. Uh, no, what? No nothing’s wrong. Why-” Clint was silent for a minute. “Oh, uh huh, no, see I- no... And there’s a perfectly good reason for that,” he insisted. 

“That’s Natasha?” Bucky asked, glancing over from where he now occupied the driver’s seat. “Tell her we’re about an hour out.”

“Uh, please hold.” Clint pressed the phone again his chest to muffle it. He was still wearing Bucky’s jacket, and he had to admit to himself, that- Bucky was alright with that.

“Yeah, and she wants to know if something’s wrong, because we’re very late apparently.” He lifted the phone back up to his ear. “Hey- woah, okay. Sorry, alright, I won’t.” He glanced up at Bucky and muttered, “She doesn’t like being put on hold.” 

Bucky grinned, shaking his head. 

“No Nat- I- did I do something stupid?” he asked back, way too incredulous to be sincere. He paused, listening. “Am I deflecting? What? Uh, no, I’m definitely not.”

“Oh my god, you hopeless train wreck of a human being,” Bucky laughed at him. “You really couldn’t lie to save your life.”

Clint just swatted his shoulder, glaring. “No Nat, everything’s fine, I swear. We’re like an hour away.  If you just- What? Why the hell do we have  _ another  _ meeting? Jesus, it’s not like we’re invading Poland. Tony isn’t even in the continent yet and Steve’s like, still in Switzerland, isn’t he? Cause he’s setting up that thing with Coulson?” He was quiet, listening to whatever Natasha was saying for a long moment. “Yes, we have the address. Yes, we- No, holy hell, take a breath Natasha. We stopped for food is all. And Bucky’s flight was delayed. You don’t- Jesus woman, fine, fine.” He shoved the phone at Bucky. “She wants to talk to you.”

Biting back his grin, he took the phone, lifting it to his ear. “Hey Nat, it’s me. What’s up?”

_ “You’re only an hour away?”  _ she asked, her tone all business.

“Yeah, about,” he agreed.

_ “You should’ve been here at least two hours ago.” _

“Yeah, sorry about that. Couldn’t be helped.”

_ “Then why does Clint sound like he’s lying to me when he says that? And when he tries to explain it?” _

He laughed. Clint just crossed his arms, muttering under his breath and turning his back to him as he shuffled over in his seat to stare out the dark window. 

“He’s not lying. My plane was late letting us get off, and we did stop for food, because he wouldn’t stop bitching about it otherwise. And we  _ also  _ learned that he’d been mispronouncing ‘Munich’ all his life, so he’s been pretty defensive about that. That’s probably what you’re picking up on. It’s my fault really. I won’t stop making fun of it for him. He’s in a mood.”

Natasha seemed to consider that for a moment.  _ “Just call me when you two get here and I’ll let you in.” _

“Will do,” Bucky said, and he hung up, tossing the phone back to Clint, who’d quit sulking in favor of turning back to listen in to his conversation more closely.

Clint barely managed to catch it, he was so busy gaping at Bucky in disbelief. “You. You just  _ lied _ . To her  _ face _ , and you didn’t even bat an eyelash. Holy shit. 

He brushed it off. “Yeah, well, like it was any of her business if we took a brief mental health break or not.”

“Holy shit, but  _ she believed you _ holy shit.”

“Calm down, Clint,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Neither of us will ever really know if she actually believed me or not.”

“But, she didn’t call you out on an outright lie, and that’s farther than I ever got,” he said, still amazed.

Bucky laughed. “Darlin’,” he sympathised, “that’s because you’re quite possibly the worst liar I’ve ever seen. I mean, even Steve’s got you beat.”

Clint’s face went flush as he crossed his arms, burrowing deeper into the oversized jacket and ducking his face away. “Am not.”

“Are too,” Bucky insisted, grinning.

“Then teach me your ways, Sensei,” Clint mocked him, “if you’re  _ all that _ .”

“Hm.” Bucky made a show of considering it.

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope,” Clint said, snickering. 

“Oh fuck off. All the hair pins and refrigerator magnets in the world couldn’t save you,” Bucky said. “Best make do with what you’ve got.”

Clint scoffed. “Oh please. You haven’t even seen what I can do with a couple sparklers, an aluminum can and some plaster mix.”

Bucky gave him a weird look. “What  _ can  _ you do with that exactly?”

“Thermite, my dude. It’s like a thermal lance on a budget if you don’t melt your hands off.”

“What the fuck.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

They each had their own setups all over the city, various apartments rented for various lengths of time. Some of them would be staying the whole three months they intended to be in Vienna, some of them would be rotating through others. Some of them were set up as vacationers, others as there on business (Clint had thought that was oddly funny). Others who managed an accent other than Americans (meaning Natasha primarily, and Tony, who surprised them all with an impressive control of Italian) were able to craft their own stories. 

All of it, every part of the painstaking process of creating cover IDs which included everything from credit histories to library cards, of lining up the apartments, of paying security deposits they probably wouldn’t get back after they ditched the hemisphere and signing leases, all of it, was in the name of caution. What they were looking to avoid was leaving a footprint in their wake in the shape of eight foreigners with no names, arriving in the city simultaneously, living out of the same hotel for about three months, doing nothing with a paper trail, meeting no one,  _ being  _ no one, and then jetting off to the Maldives immediately after the biggest art heist to ever grace the front pages. 

Because those things weren’t red flags. To any even semi-competent law enforcement agency, those were about the equivalent of taking a full page ad out of the Wall Street Journal for your mugshot and signed confession. Those were amateur moves. Embaracements. And even if the alternative took a significant dent in their communal slush fund and caused a hell of a headache, it was necessary. Bucky would agree to that much.

Even if it resulted in even  _ more  _ complaining.

“Okay, your place is nicer than mine,” Clint whined, ducking back into the Aston Martin and closing the door behind him with a huff. 

“Yours has roof access,” Bucky countered, too busy putting the rest of the fake license plates back inside the panel in the driver’s side door that was, upon closer inspection, very clearly though inconspicuously rigged as some sort of small smuggler’s compartment. Man, as if he needed more reasons to get attached to that car. 

“Full of pigeons. Too many pigeons,” Clint said, peering over at what he was doing. “Did you switch it out?”

“Yeah, as requested,” he said. He smirked, recalling Clint rolling his eyes and telling him that he was “not a complete idiot, I know how to keep an easily identified car clean”, followed by a series of rather rude expletives. 

“Good,” Clint said. “Plus, yours has a working fire escape. Mine’s gonna fall apart.”

“Think of it as one less entrance to cover,” he suggested.

“Or one less exit strategy,” Clint rebutted. “But, all these rooftops up here? Very runnable. I could definitely get around.”

“That’s probably inadvisable, not that that’ll stop you.” Bucky focused on the next task, which was figuring out how to get to the address Natasha had sent them through the maze of narrow, one-way streets packed between rows of buildings tall and dense enough to make them loose any sense of direction. “You’ve got the gps?”

“Yeah, yeah, got it,” Clint waved him off, typing into his phone. “Through the intersection up there then a left.”

They had made it into the city faster than their estimated time of arrival, and opted to use the minutes they’d recovered through giving into the temptation to test out the shiny new car on empty stretches of highway by dropping their stuff off at their respective residences where they’d be staying for the next three months. Which, inconveniently, happened to be in almost separate city districts entirely. 

“No, Buck, I said take a right after that weird looking tree.”

“And I did go right. That there? Was a right.”

“Well, then, you’re other right.”

“I know which right is right Clint, unlike some people apparently.”

“The point is, we need to be going thataway, so turn up th- no, not there.  _ There _ .”

“Stop backseat driving.”

“Not a U-turn, not a U-turn, not a-”

“Clint, I swear  _ to god _ .”

“It’s  _ illegal _ .”

“What isn’t?”

When they got there at a quarter past midnight, only two minutes past their projected hour, Natasha let them into her apartment where they were rendezvousing.

“Well now I see why us being late was a problem. We’re half the party,” Clint remarked, shuffling through the door. The small apartment was tucked into the corner of the complex, all exposed brick walls and a few frosted windows overlooking a tiny crumbling courtyard, the vines it was once swathed in thinned and deadened by the onset of winter. 

They had been under the impression that this was going to be another one of their collective meetings, even if Steve and Tony would be absent. However, finding only Natasha and Sam inside, it became clear that this was not that.

Clint was promptly cowed by a stern look from Natasha. “Get inside. We have to talk.”

Bucky followed him through the doorway, closing it behind him. “Is there a problem?” As they were ushered into the small sitting area comprising of a threadbare couch tucked against the corner, a well worn coffee table, and the stools along the counter that separated the space from the kitchen, Bucky heard her lock the deadbolt behind them.

“More of an inconvenience than a problem,” she said, her tone somewhere between frustrated and bored.

“I thought we were over this,” Sam complained, looking up from where he was slouched over his untouched beer at one of the bar stools. “The passive aggressive blaming me part.” The poor guy looked exhausted, his suit rumpled, dress shirt untucked, and tie laying over the back of the couch where he’d tossed it. 

Natasha sighed, looking up as if for patience, and Bucky got the sense that they were coming in on the back end of this argument.

“No one is blaming you,” Natasha said. “And I’m not going to pander to your self-pity any more, so that’s the last time I’ll say it.”

“Well that seems kinda harsh,” Bucky said, taking a seat on the couch.

“And unfair,” Sam said, eyeing her like she might bite. “Didn’t you pander to his self-pity for like, a year?” he asked, jerking his chin in Clint’s direction.

“Hey,” Clint and Bucky said in unison, Clint blurting out in offense and Bucky giving a low warning.

“Nobody panders to my self-pity but me, thank you very much,” Clint continued, crossing his arms and moodily.

Sam took a swig from his drink. “And Bucky now, apparently.”

“I beg your pardon?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow, but way to comfortable were he’d sunk into the couch to expend more energy on this.

“Unless Clint decided he’s gotta thing for black leather now, isn’t that yours?” Sam drawled, too pleased with himself as he nodded toward the jacket Clint was still wearing, smirking around the lip of his drink.

Clint froze up a little, glancing down at himself in a moment of realization just before Bucky saw a hint of pink bloomed across his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and he turned away with an indignant huff. 

Bucky just laughed, shrugging. “He steals things. I didn’t think that would surprise anyone, given I’m pretty sure that’s the reason he’s here.”

Clint didn’t say anything about it, just glanced back at Bucky too quickly for him catch.

“Given we’re already three hours behind schedule, let’s wrap up the small talk plese,” Natasha said as she shouldered the refrigerator closed, three more drinks in hand. Getting a glimpse, Bucky was pretty sure they were the only things in there. Glass clinking, she set them down on the counter, sliding one down to where Clint stood and tossing the other to Bucky, who caught it deftly.

“We have a schedule?” Clint asked, picking at the edge of the sticker on his.

“We did,” Sam said, stressing the ‘did’ part. “Past tense. We had three months planned out and accounted for and now we’ve gotta find time to make a pit stop in Sweden.”

“The hell? We just got here,” Bucky complained. “And last time I checked, Sweden is on the other side of the continent.”

“Mhmm,” Clint agreed. “That’s not a pit stop, that’s a trans-European detour. A very expensive and time consuming one.”

Sam rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up. “Well, sue me. That’s just how it’s gonna be.”

“Now now, let’s not be dramatic boys,” Natasha chided. “We can get in and out in a week, easy. That’s a plenty recoverable setback. As for the money, well, Steve set aside an overhead and discretionary fund in case of such setbacks. Besides, Fury’s backing this endeavour now, so we have an investor if things really go belly up later on.” 

Clint eyed her suspiciously, bet seemed to decide that her calm air of disinterest was genuine, and that it wasn’t a cause for too much concern. “Fine, so, what’s the deal? What’s in Sweden and why is it Sam’s fault?”

“It  _ isn’t _ ,” Sam corrected immediately.

Natasha cut him off from any more indignant explaining, lifting a hand and motioning for him to be quiet. “No one’s fault. We just got new information is all.”

And it seemed, as Natasha explained it, that they got that new information a little later than was convenient. 

Their next step in arranging all the moving parts was supposed to be hitting the architecture firm that handled the renovations of the penthouse safe room of the Veradex building. They needed the blueprints of the new layout and installations in order to account for any security features they would have to contend with. But more than that, by the time they were ready to act on any of it, they needed to be able to account for every second, to know where everyone would be, done to the square inch. That wasn’t a problem when they thought they could kill two birds with one stone, the company having gone local for the renovations, so both the firm and their ultimate mark were in the same country. 

The problem emerged through an unfortunate lead that Bruce uncovered the whisper of and Sam chased down until they had all the facts. Or, most of them.  

Bruce had been attending one of those exceedingly boring but absolutely mission-critical rubber chicken dinners- the ones that were breeding grounds for interesting gossip and a wet dream from anyone interested in gathering intel. There, he’d heard something potentially relevant, and passed it on to Sam, who was in a position to do something about it.

Since the beginning (really, since before they even had a plan, meaning it greatly contributed to the making of one) Sam had positioned himself to gather information under the radar by pulling some strings and getting himself onto a high profile job through his private security contractor. He was their inside man. There could have potentially been blame to throw his way- if blame was being thrown around- because, despite his position, he didn’t find out first, or earlier, but really there was a reason they wanted Banner on the team.

Regardless of fault of timing, Sam pursued it until it was clear that yes, they had a problem on their hands. And he’d immediately been in contact with Steve and Natasha about it. 

Bucky was pretty sure he hadn’t slept or taken a breath since then. He was invested, he’d give him that.

“I get the move toward digital, but shipping all the hard copies across Europe to gather dust in a basement somewhere seems unnecessary,” Clint complained from his perch on one of the bar stools. “And rude.”

“Rude?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah, rude to me, ‘cause guess who she’s gonna make crawl through dusty-ass air vents to get to ‘em?” he said, indicating to Natasha with his bottle. “Guess.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Well it’s not like we can expect them to make it easy for us.”

“No,” Clint sighed. “No, it’s never easy.” But then he perked up a little, looking to Natasha. “Except that thing in Sao Paulo. You remember that, Nat?  _ That  _ was easy.”

The original plan had always been for Tony to hack the firm’s servers and get them access to any and all blueprints they needed. It would’ve been faster, cheaper, and ideally less risky. They scrapped that after Tony did a little research, however, and explained that due to some complicated computer things, he couldn’t get access electronically. Actually, Natasha explained in layman’s terms for every who wasn’t Tony that the issue wasn’t that it was too complicated, but rather that it was something about not having updated their technology since the bronze age. 

And that meant they were left with one option: good ol’ fashion B&E. 

“In Sao Paulo,” Natasha interrupted, somehow finding the patience, “you ended up handcuffed to a cartel hitwoman in the back of a police cruiser and I had to get three quarters of a million dollars in small bills to Uruguay by hitching a ride on a barely bathtub-worthy fishing boat. It was not easy.”

Clint shrugged. “She was really nice though, the hitwoman. We could’ve been friends in another life.”

“She skinned people alive, Clint.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Moving on, please?” Sam pleaded.

They clearly didn’t need eight people, nor could they spare all eight, for what they were unofficially and under protest from Natasha dubbing the ‘Swedish Detour’. 

Sam couldn’t leave his post without raising suspicion and they needed him where he was, so he was out. Steve was still busy dealing with Fury’s people, but it wasn’t like he could help much. Tony might’ve been able to help, but he was an ocean away still for the next two days and they needed to leave in the morning. Bruce was busy cozying up to the right people so that he could be in position come late December, so that was another no. Thor was an option, but honestly, they were going for quiet and inconspicuous. Hopefully, no one would ever know they were there. 

Because the architecture firm had digitized on-sight records, the original hard copies of plans and blueprints that were not parts of active or recurring projects- which, they learned, were actually very valuable in the architecture design world- were moved. Because the blueprints they needed happened to be moved to safe storage in the Swedish branch, which was somehow better equipped to handle it, that’s exactly where Clint (their thief), Natasha (their grifter, and also de-facto person in charge), and Bucky (the ‘oh shit’ contingency, Clint joked, but more seriously, the guy who had a lot more experience tracking down and retrieving this sort of intel than either of them) were going to Sweden. They didn’t know exactly what that meant, that this particular branch was ‘better equipped’, but they were hoping it wouldn’t pose too great a challenge regardless. 

Besides, between the three of them, they had national museums, military bases, private mansions with private armies, international political conventions, terrorist bunkers, corporate headquarters, royal palaces, and more under their belts. 

What trouble could one little Swedish branch of a European architecture firm, which wasn’t even that high profile of a company, really pose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also guys, not gonna lie, could really do with some cheerleading action right now 'cause I see what you're doing as those hits and subscriptions are climbing (which I'm v thankful for) but tbh one (1) singular really good comment can and has motivated me to write like 5k+ in one sitting before tbh so win/win really :)


	7. Stage 4: pre-game preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still on schedule, roughly, which is a small miracle. I planned to do more plot stuff with this chapter, but then it got too long, and I figured better go for quality than try and force stuff in there, so here you are. And I'm weirdly really happy with this chapter. Plus, I think you guys are gonna like it ;) Or hate it. Who knows. Yell at me in the comments.

Stakeouts could go one of two ways in Bucky’s book: either complicated by nothing but the mind-numbing boredom which came with sitting in silence for hours, or, simply put, badly. And, when it came to  _ badly _ , however regretful the first option was, it was always magnitudes worse. The real kicker was that  _ worse  _ didn’t even have to mean getting spotted, the op getting blown, getting shot at, or almost blown up, thrown through a plate glass window, or chased across an international border, which was all really par for the course as far as stakeouts could go, or had gone, not that he was particularly fond of any of them. But at least those were fun times. 

At least they didn’t involve carefully picking his way through the complicated and multi-layered minefield of apparently glaringly obvious yet unsaid thoughts and motives that he was absolutely ignorant. Because apparently, according to Natasha, he was supposed to be some sort of mind reader. But no, he wanted it on the record that he was, in fact, not telepathic.

Because this stakeout, it seemed, was going badly. Generally it’s why he didn’t do this sort of thing with partners.

“I’m not going to warn you again,” Natasha said, somehow making lounging back in the passenger seat with her boots propped up on the dashboard in the cramped space of the small sedan look comfortable. “Turn that off.”

“Hm,” Bucky considered it, still flipping through the stations in his thus far unsuccessful mission to find something in a language he understood, or that was at least palatable. “No.”

She blinked at him, mildly surprised. “Off,” she told him, more firmly, but something lazily predatorial in the way she cocked her head to the side when she looked at him, like he were something only moderately curious. Or maybe she was thinking about various ways to conveniently dispose of bodies.

She had that way about her, the thing where she looked like she could snap your neck if she wanted to, and she knew it, but weighed it up and it would just be too much of a hassle. Not that it fazed him. He was used to it.

“Looks like you just warned me again,” he observed, smiling at her with nothing but faux sympathy.

She glared cooly at him,  _ clearly _ very impressed with the maturity he chose to display in the moment. Clearly. “Must you? Must you really?” she asked, making sure he knew just how disgusted she was with him through her tone and the face she pulled.

“Why?” he asked, disinterested. Wincing at the static, he flipped to the next channel. “I know it takes so much attention to keep track of these guys,” he said, keeping his sarcasm deadpan, “but I don’t think the radio’s all that distracting.”

“Please turn it off,” Natasha tried again, her tone just a little too sweet for the ‘please’ to be anything but a vague threat.

“No, not mall cops. Probably trained assassins,” Bucky mused, judging the next station for only as long as it took him to deem it Sweden’s take on country music, which was possibly worse than the real thing. “Definitely need to be on your game.”

“Pick a station or just turn it off, but if you keep changing it I’m going to break every finger on that hand, James,” she snapped, her mouth pursed in that way it did when she was thoroughly annoyed. But she was only mostly serious as far as he could tell.

Something  _ was  _ eating at her though. He’d watched her get to the brink of saying something what must’ve been five times already. And it had only happened in the relatively brief span of time since Clint had gotten out of the car, leaving them to make each other miserable in peace.

“I  _ will  _ pick a station, I just haven’t found it yet,” he replied, eyeing her cautiously. That didn’t stop him from turning the dial to the next station.

“You’re worse than Clint,” she decided, followed by her prefered litany of muttered Russian curses under her breath as she glared out the window. That said, it didn’t appear to be a fight she was keen on having. Still, there it was again, she was thinking about saying something. She opted against it though, and went back to ignoring him. He’d never seen her so indecisive.

They were parked near the corner of the block, next to a four way intersection that was just busy enough at that time of night that Bucky wasn’t concerned they’d look suspicious. Their target, fairly sizable in terms of square footage but only two stories, was diagonal to them, situated on the opposite corner. It was some sort of small pseudo-warehouse as far as they could tell. There were hardly any windows, only two points of entry- the front and back doors- and with the flat roof and the lack of any other distinctive features, it left them with the impression that it was quite possible either the most boring office building ever designed, which would be terribly ironic, or that it’s sole purpose was safe storage.

Given the size of the parking lot though, could be both. They’d pondered that exact question for far too long, sitting in Natasha’s hotel room that they’d designated their base of operations. It wasn’t so much that exact question however as it was what it revealed, which was the blunt fact that they had very little intel to go on, short of an address and the documents they were looking for inside. 

They were presently trying to remedy that fact.

Their target was just about in the middle of an industrial area somewhere between urban and suburban. To the building’s right was a small used car dealership surrounded by a rainbow of colors, makes, and models on display, and behind it was some sort of Swedish version of a dollar store. The rest was 

The company’s logo hung over the large glass front of the building, the bright light of the lobby spilling out into the parking lot that wrapped around it to the side. There were two security guards they could see in the garish light filling the lobby, one sitting behind a large semi-circle desk, the other leaned over said desk on his elbows chatting with him. They were in their late thirties maybe, average height, a little more than average build, but not all that worrisome. 

From what they’d seen, guy-in-front-of-the-desk left through the front doors approximately every thirty minutes (‘approximately’, because he apparently couldn’t bother to check his watch regularly) and took a leisurely stroll around the side of the building. On his way to the back of the building he stopped to have a chat- some sort of check in-  with the guard sitting in the small booth at the gate of the parking lot entrance nearer the edge of the car dealership. He stayed there anywhere from two to nine minutes by their count, depending on how talkative booth-guy was feeling, before he continued around to the back of the warehouse, took a brief look around, and entered the back door. They timed him. Thus far, it took him an average of four minutes to get from the back door to the front lobby again. The whole patrol took around fifteen minutes.

The most interesting part of their night had been when they realized that on the hour, three more guards- same demographic: younger than expected, solid enough to potentially be a problem, but doubtfully trained to be one- came out of the solid looking metal door in the wall to the left of the front desk. One replaced behind-the-desk-guy, another replaced in-front-of-the-desk guy and started the next patrol, and the third went out to replace booth-guy. The three they replaced swiped the access cards they kept clipped to their belts and went back through that same door in the lobby, disappearing for an hour.

Giving up on his search, Bucky turned the radio off. He exhaled heavily, pushing his shoulders back into his seat and wishing it would lean back just a little further. 

“Why do you keep fidgeting?” Natasha asked, still annoyed with just about everything he did, but it didn’t seem rhetorical or just a complaint.

“M’not,” he muttered, watching in-front-of-the-desk guy pace back and forth across the lobby through the expanse of glass.

“Yes, you are,” she said. “It’s annoying and also unlike you.”

“I could sit here just breathing and it’d annoy you,” he retorted, coming off a little more snide than he’d intended. But she wasn’t the only one who was annoyed.

She didn’t reply right away, instead turning to give him her best ‘bitch, please’ look, making the most use of carefully arched eyebrows. “Fine,” she sighed, looking forward again and settling back in her seat. “You don’t have to say it. I was going to ask but there’s no point. I get it.”

He looked sharply at her, eyes narrowed. “Say what? There’s nothing to ‘get’.”

“Mhmm,” she hummed, clearly unconvinced as she examined a nonexistent hangnail. “Okay.”

“No,” Bucky said, pissed off by her stupid mind games. “No, by all means, go right ahead. What have you already got?”

She looked sideways at him, her expression doubtful, but somehow so clearly advertising that she didn’t think he’d actually want her to say it. 

“What?” he snapped, more exasperated than anything.

“You’re jumpy,” she observed simply, but that wasn’t  _ it _ . Whatever it was. Just another redirection.

“Am not.”

“He’s  _ just  _ setting the cameras up.”

“What?” he asked, hearing her but not making whatever leap she did. Or refusing to. “Clint? Yeah, so?”

“It’s minimal risk,” she continued, tone still infuriatingly placating. “He’ll be back any minute.”

“I know that,” Bucky said, the frustration at her absolute refusal to be anything but cryptic bleeding into his confusion all the more. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know, James,” she said considerately. A bold-faced lie. “What  _ does  _ Clint have to do with anything?”

He took a breath to say something, but changed his mind and chose to let the mounting anger crumble away, shaking his head. “You know what? No. Fine. Be as cryptic as you like.”

“That’s not me being cryptic,” Natasha said, rolling her eyes, because  _ clearly  _ she was better than that.

“No?” Bucky asked, crossing his arms. He wasn’t going to bring it up before, because he didn’t know nor care to know what it was about, but now he just wanted to run it in to wipe that infuriatingly smug expression off her face. “So I guess that you slipping away from two different group meetings know to take secret phone calls- no, that’s not cryptic either? Who the hell is this ‘Lang’ person anyway?”

She didn’t skip a beat, just raised an eyebrow at him like she was mildly impressed, but not in a good way. It was a surprised that he wasn’t as dumb as a brick wall kind of impressed. “My mechanic.”

“Lie.” 

“My doctor.”

“Another lie,” Bucky stated, disappointed. “Come on, you’re better than that.”

“My  _ lady  _ doctor.” She gave him a pointed look, a dare to push any further.

That one did give him pause. He weighed up the look on her face, that tone she used. “Nah,” he decided. “Still a lie.”

She just shrugged, conceding the point, and fell silent for a moment. Bucky thought she was just going to drop the matter, and he wouldn't have pushed it (because if he was being honest he just guessed 50/50 on the lady doctor one) but then she said, “In my defense, he’s called at very inopportune times.”

“And he is…?” Bucky asked.

“My, my, Mr. Barnes,” she chided, throwing a dainty hand over her heart in surprise and adopting that Southern bell inflection she did so well. “You are being rather forward. Any more of that and I’ll have to inquire as to your intentions.”

“You can relax doll, I’ve got no intentions there,” Bucky said, smiling like a perfect gentleman. “We all know Steve’s got the hots for you. No way I’m gettin’ involved there.”

She blinked at him, expression blank for a solid five seconds. It wasn’t until his facade of polite disinterest broke as he snorted in laughter that she realized he was messing with her.

“Poor Steve,” she remarked, giving him a cold look, “having to put up with a friend like you.”

“Admit it,” he said, still grinning, “I got you there, for a second.”

“For a second, maybe,” she sighed, glancing away and staring out the window. “I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t already suspected.”

“You- what?” The grin dropped from his face as he narrowed his eyes at her. No way. “Steve-” She glanced back at him, a smug smirk curling at the corners of her mouth. “Aw, fuck, now you’re fuckin’ with me.”

She laughed, rather pleased. “How the tables have turned.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t forgotten how we got to this topic. So quit changing the subject,” he rebuked her. “Who the fuck is Scott Lang?”

She paused, looking at him more seriously. “I didn’t know you got his first name,” she mused, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Well, I just got the two actually,” he admitted, “but it was a suspicion that you’ve now confirmed.”

She pursed her lips, displeased. “Hm, my bad then.” Natasha paused, thinking. “James, honesty now,” she said, serious, “do you think anyone else overheard?”

That was interesting. “No,” he said, truthfully. “I was up on the roof when you stepped outside to take the call.” It wasn’t like he was trying to eavesdrop. Not really.

Something clicked for her, a little alarming by the subtle clent of her jaw. “Not Clint? He wasn’t up there with you?”

He thought about it, a little confused. “I mean, I don’t even think his aids would’ve picked that up. I barely did, and calls ‘em pieces of crap on a routine basi-”

“You’re sure?” She redirected him back to her question, more serious, though he wasn’t sure why it was so important.

“Yeah, I’m sure. He’d gone inside to grab a couple beers. I remember because I thought about asking him if he knew something was up but figured it was just more of whatever shady shit you get up to in your spare time, and honestly I didn’t care. I kinda care now though…”

She considered that, examining his expression closely before nodding, accepting that. “He’s finding something for me. Lang. It isn’t important, unless of course it is. And if it turns out to be, I’ll let you know.”

Right, because that was very helpful. He settled back into his seat, exhaling heavily. “Whatever. Just keep me out of it.”

She didn’t say anything, just turned her attention back to the task at hand, and they slipped back into silence.

When it came to the guards, Bucky was more concerned about quantity than he was quality. Ideally, they would never even be seen, so it wouldn’t be a problem. Even if one of them were seen, and they did have a problem, Bucky wouldn’t be particularly concerned for life and limb. Firearm regulation was strict in Sweden. Plus, they were talking about an architecture company here, not a bank vault. So a flashlight, radio, and a taser hung around each of the guards’ belts. Not exactly terrifying stuff.

They also clocked three security cameras during their earlier inspection of the building, one positioned in the front corner and angled to cover the front doors, another over the back door, and the third angled down from the small structure in the parking lot at the gate. It was reasonable to figure that there could be another guard somewhere inside that locked door monitoring the security cameras, but after almost two hours of sitting, and waiting, and watching, and annoying each other, they’d only ever seen six different guys. 

Natasha checked the time on her phone, frowning. She picked up the handheld radio from the center console. “Can we get a status update, please?”

A brief moment of silence went by, just long enough for Bucky to get an uncomfortable knot of anxiety in his stomach. Then there was a similar click and Clint’s voice came over the radio a second later.  _ “Underappreciated and underpaid?”  _ he asked like he wasn’t sure it would fly, sounding slightly out of breath due to the cold.

Bucky could almost picture him, crouched on the corner of that weird Swedish version of the dollar store’s roof right then, probably shaking a bit with the wind chill. He’d made sure to let them know, repeatedly over the course of the nearly forty minutes since he’d left the car, that he really hated the cold- which Bucky already knew- and that he was taking this personally- which Bucky suspected.

“Not really the answer we were looking for,” Natasha said, rolling her eyes. “Are you almost done with the camera?”

With a webcam and a wireless signal booster, surveillance was made easy on a budget, and it did away with the need to stick around for hours to track guard rotations and patrols. 

_ “Woman, if you have a problem with how long it’s taking me, you can come do it yourself _ ,” he informed them, huffing grumpily.

“That’s okay, take your time,” she said, not rising to the bait.

_ “I would’ve been done ages ago, but there was this kid fucking standing there smoking weed in the one camera blindspot where I can climb it for like, ever. Not even good weed. Really bad actually by the smell of it. And I think it’s clinging to me.” _

Bucky took the radio from her. “Uh-huh,” he said, skeptical, “the  _ only  _ place you can get up the side of the building or the only convenient one?”

_ “Listen here jackass,”  _ Clint started, mildly offended.  _ “You know how hard it is to get a solid grip when it’s freaking zero degrees out? I’m not only dealing with ice here- I stopped feeling my fingers like, twenty minutes ago. So you can take your bitching and shove it up-” _

Bucky rolled his eyes and turned the radio off, glancing at Natasha. “Is he always like that?” he asked, skeptical. “I mean, this seems fairly in character, but, always?”

She inclined her head in begrudging confirmation. “He swears at you quite a lot, actually,” she noted, curious now that she was thinking about it. “Just his way of showing affection, I guess. If he doesn’t like you, then he just doesn’t talk to you.”

It seemed he just should’ve kept his mouth closed though, because there it was. He couldn’t even put his finger on what changed about her that he saw, but it’s like he could  _ see  _ her make a decision. Somehow he’d just given Natasha the door she wanted.

“Not always like that,” she continued, “but generally yes. Probably stems from the lack of any real childhood, a distaste for authority, and the fact that he breaks rules and avoids consequences on the daily,” she said after considering it for a moment, completely serious. 

“That-” Bucky paused, not sure what to say to that, and a little uncomfortable if he was honest at how readily she dissected Clint’s general personality. It felt, too personal? Oversharing maybe, and not even hers to share. “Well, okay. But it seems like most of those apply to pretty much all of us.” 

She didn’t disagree, shrugging. She looked sideways at him, the corner of her mouth quirked into an amused smirk. “Maybe. I’m just letting you know what you’re getting into,” she said, like he was supposed to know what that meant.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “And what am I getting into?”

Pressing her mouth into a flat line, she rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Really. Don’t play dumb, James. It isn’t a good look on you.”

Slightly affronted, he said, “Excuse me? Oh, I get it, we’re doing the little see who catches the lie game. Well I’m not playing.”

“Neither am I,” she said, sighing like he’d already disappointed her. “Just so you know, Clint has an interesting penchant for unironically watching children’s television shows and adopting stray animals. I don’t know which is worse. Then of course he always realizes that he doesn’t have the time or resources, and within a week he tries to pass them off to me. So I suppose that habit’s worse. Now, that I think about it though, the TV show is about dogs, so that might explain it...”

“Nat, I really didn’t ask about any-”

“No you didn’t ask, but here I’m telling you anyway, aren’t I. To his credit, he always finds a suitable home for them,” she continued, ignoring him, and he got the sense she was just getting started. “But I’m warning you, know him long enough and you  _ will  _ end up with an obese cat that you never asked for.”

Bucky held up his hands, imploring her to stop the onslaught of unasked-for information. “Nat, seriously, what’s going on here?”

“Did you know that the closest he ever came to intentionally killing a man was for beating a dog?” she asked, but wasn’t interested in an actual answer. By this point she’d dropped her feet back to the floor of the car, twisting in her seat to look at him directly. “It was sweet, really, but thankfully it didn’t go that far because I would’ve gotten a panicked call at four in the morning to help hide a body. Though except for that incident, he’s surprisingly non-violent. Won’t ever touch a gun. Even gets uncomfortable at the sight of too much blood even.”

Bucky let his head fall back against the headrest with a dull thud, giving up. “And I’m sure you’re telling me that because…”

“He hates conflict, and change,” she said, but in her analysis she was becoming all the more serious. She was looking sternly at him, like he should be too, and he got the sense that he was missing some very important message her. “He clings to whatever stability he can find like his life depends on it. And his solution to everything is to work harder, even if it’s physically impossible. That means he will absolutely take unacceptable personal risks if it means he thinks he can avoid letting someone down, and he is the first person he blames when something goes wrong.” She fixed him with a firm look like he’d done something to piss her off. “Because he’s loyal. To a fault.”

That look only added to what had quickly become a very tense atmosphere, despite having started with what had seemed like an innocuous, not even serious question. And while he was still genuinely confused, the pieces that had been hinted at ever since they were left alone in the car started to click into place.

He took a breath. “Natalia,” he said, more gently, “I understand that you-”

She lifted a hand to cut him off. “No, you  _ don’t _ ,” she said sternly. “I’m telling you this because  _ I like you _ , James. You’re my friend, and I’d trust you with my life. You know that.” There was no question there, and she looked absolutely earnest, more so than any other time he could recall. “But I love him,” she said, sincerely, with conviction. “I love Clint like a brother. He’s my family,” she said simply, seriously, like it couldn’t be more true. “And the last thing I’d want to do is pick sides here. So whatever you do, or don’t do-” she glared at him a little- “understand that. And  _ don’t _ -” she glared sharply at him, “Mess. Him. Up.”

Bucky sat in stunned silence for a moment, expression blank.  _ Now  _ he got it, of course. Hard  _ not to _ . Finally, shaking his head in disbelief, he remembered how to talk, barely, the words coming out in aborted phrases. “Oh, my, god. Natalia, you-” he cut himself off, too astounded to continue. “Pick sides? I didn’t even-” He didn’t even know what he was trying to say, but his voice was raised and his tone and no doubt his expression did a lot of the talking for him. “I mean,  _ he  _ hasn’t even- we are  _ not _ \- Oh my god, that was a shovel talk?” He stared at her, expecting an answer. “You gave me a shovel talk?” 

She crossed her arms defiantly, glancing at him down her nose. “Had to be said,” she declared, absolutely unapologetic.

“Are you kidding me right now?” he asked, bordering on outraged. He wasn’t really. But, it was ridiculous. Too ridiculous to even wrap his head around. “Clint’s not- we’re not- this is crazy. I’d expect this sort of thing out of someone like Steve, but you- fuckin’ hell.” He scrubbed both hands over his face like he was tired, collecting himself. “What did I even  _ do _ ?”

She’d already gone back to watching the guard rotation, but she let out a deep breath, looking up as if she’d find extra patience there. “Nothing,” she said, “ _ yet _ . I have  _ eyes  _ you know. So don’t you dare try and lie to me. You’re not nearly as good a lier as you think.”

“Right, because you can read minds,” he muttered, crossing his arms and glaring out the window.

She huffed moodily, but fell silent for a moment, relenting the aggressive approach. When she spoke again, she’d backed off a little, tone more sympathetic. “You do like him though, I’m right about that.” She wasn’t exactly looking for confirmation… or maybe she was. He couldn’t say he knew.

Bucky sighed, wishing fervently that they could return to the boring, silent part of the stakeout. “We’re not doing this right now, okay?” he said, refusing to look at her. 

Even still, there was that feeling that had become increasingly familiar over the past month. That jump his heart did in his chest accompanied by the tightly wound knot deep in his belly, even then as he was just thinking about it. Him. He knew what did it. Contrary to Natasha’s current opinion, he wasn’t a  _ complete  _ idiot. 

He knew it was always right there beside the small, begrudging smiles, the type that went with crossed arms and a moment of fleeting glances as Clint turned away and tried to hide it. The sort of stupid lopsided smiles only brought out by an ungodly bad pun or stupid pop culture reference, the grins that creeped out slowly and without permission. The type followed by attempts to suppress laughter with bitten lips, and shoulders shaking uncontrollably as he failed.

Fuck. 

He was a little alarmed at how readily he could picture it. Him.

_ Fuck. _

Nevermind then. Natasha was absolutely right. Nothing changed there. He was such a dumb fucking idiot. 

She just shook her head, smiling softly. “Mhmm, sure,” she feigned agreement. “Your lack of a response is all the answer I need,” she said, a sharp smirk curling at the corners of her mouth.

“Just fuck off, would you?” he asked, more pleading than angry as he shifted uncomfortably under her searching gaze. And that, he would agree, was unlike him.

“Never.” She was grinning sharply. “Dear god, you’re adorable.”

That broke his determination to keep his gaze fixed straight ahead. He turned to glare darkly at her, and was about to say what he hoped was an appropriately snide comeback when they both almost jumped out of their seats in surprise at a loud, jarring thud that reverberated through the car from behind them. They swiveled around quickly, only to see Clint grinning evilly at them out the rear window, his hands still planted on the trunk where he’d slammed them down on the car.

They didn’t have time for anything else before he’d darted around to one of the doors and crawled into the back seat, still exceedingly pleased with himself. “Ha, made you both jump,” he said, not at all off-put by two equally displeased looks that got him. He pulled the door closed behind him.

“Asshole,” Bucky muttered. 

“Hey, I tried to tell you guys I was coming, but  _ you  _ assholes turned off your radio,” Clint justified innocently. He dropped his own next to the other in the center console before rubbing his hands together briskly and tucking them between his knees for warmth. “Serves you fuckers right. I was freezing my ass off out there. So turn the freaking car on and turn the heat up, would you?”

Bucky gave in without a word and returned the key to the ignition, bringing the engine to life before he dialed the heat up. 

Natasha huffed in frustration though, resting her chin on her fist, her elbow braced on the door. “It isn’t even that cold,” she criticized.

“Oh yeah?” Clint immediately jerked forward, leaning over the shoulder of her seat and sticking his hand down the back of the neck of her sweater. She yelped and jolted forward at his freezing touch, twisting around in her seat and ripping his hand away from her while swearing bitterly, in more languages than one.

Bucky just snorted in laughter, shying further away from their tussling to his side of the car. He wasn’t prepared for this. He felt like Natasha had dropped a bomb on him, and he reacted accordingly.  His heart was near racing now, and it was only in part due to Clint surprising them both.

“Keep your fucking hands off me,” Natasha growled a final warning as Clint fell back into his seat, hands up in surrender even as he broke down into a fit of maniacal laughter. Still keeping an eye on him, she pulled out the laptop that she had slotted beneath her seat, flipping it open.

“Everything in order?” Bucky asked, still carefully keeping his composure, and avoiding looking just about anywhere except out the front window as he carefully- even if by this point unnecessarily- tracked the guards’ movements.

Shooting one last dark look at Clint before devoting her attention to the screen, Natasha waited for the camera feed to load. And, after a moment, they were looking at a split screen, on one side an only slightly grainy view of the back of the building as well as most of the parking lot, including the guard positioned at the parking gate, and on the other side footage from where the second camera was pointed from across the street at the front of the building. Between them, they covered the patrol route around the building.

Grudgingly, Natasha nodded once. “Looks good,” she said.

“Of course it does,” Clint said. “Can we go now? I don’t think I’m ever going to be warm again.”

“Fine, fine,” Natasha allowed. “Let’s go.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

In her hotel room later that night where they’d agreed to a brief rendezvous, Natasha sat cross-legged on the middle of the bed, the laptop open in front of her. A few water bottles that Clint had bought at the overpriced shop behind the front desk were strewn across the bed beside her where Clint had dropped them right before he’d thrown himself down onto the comforter after them, curling up beside her and pillowing his head on her lap. 

He only stopped shuffling about, trying to get more comfortable, when she started idly carding her fingers through his hair, gently scraping her nails over his scalp until he went still, humming contently.

She didn’t bother fighting it, knowing perfectly well that if he was in the mood to cuddle then he was going to find a warm body, and while she was used to it, she wasn’t sure how Bucky would react to that sort of thing. Particularly not after he appeared to suddenly find himself allergic to so much as making eye contact with either of them, especially Clint, after the dressing-down she’d surprised him with earlier. 

Adorable.

He was out picking up the food anyway. Probably for the best.

Thinking back, she didn’t believe she’d been too aggressive. He’d get over it. And even if he didn’t, it was still necessary in her book. She’d spent too long picking up all the pieces and putting Clint back together after Loki’s bullshit for her to let one more crisis shake the already uneven foundation Clint was standing on. Clearly, any sort of interpersonal crisis would not be on nearly the same level as the type of fucked-over Clint had been by the sort of international crisis that Loki had put him right in the middle of over a year ago, but that was no reason to not be cautious. Clint’s well-being and the success of the team hung in the balance.

Still, it wasn’t like she entirely disapproved.

“You give your heart away too quickly,” she murmured gently, her native Russian falling easily off her tongue, not that he understood.

“Hmmwhat?” Clint grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes. Though his aids were in, he reflexively reached a hand up to check anyway. “English please.”

“I said, for a dog person, you’re very much like a cat,” she offered as if repeating for his benefit, her eyes still glued to the computer screen with the thus-far compiled camera footage.

“Don’t care,” he mumbled. “Less talking, more of that.” He inarticulately waved a hand at hers where she was tracing gentle circles along the nape of his neck.

She smiled at that. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” she asked, quite fondly, despite the insult.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “You’re the one who keeps talking Russian at me when you know I don’t understand it.”

She shrugged. “Touché.” 

The comfortable silence was interrupted by three quiet knocks at the hotel room door.

“Who is it?” Natasha called out, despite being perfectly aware that it was Bucky returning from the food run she’d banished him to.

“Me,” he replied, slightly muffled through the wood. “Unlock the door.”

“Clint, get the door,” she said, prodding his shoulder.

He groaned in displeasure, rolling over and burying his face against her sweater. “Absolutely not,” came his muffled reply.

“Then I have to get the door, and you still have to get up regardless.”

He whined in complaint to her logic, still refusing to budge.

She sighed. “Sorry, can’t apparently,” she called back out. “Clint won’t get off me.”

They could almost hear what sounded like an exasperated sigh, then a thud that rattled the door which was undoubtedly Bucky’s forehead hitting the wood. “Come on,” he complained, muffled and defeated. 

Clint stifled a giggle, hiding his grin against her hip. 

She rolled her eyes at him. “Idiot,” she reaffirmed.

“Would one of you open the damn door,” Bucky pled. “I’ve got the pizza.”

Clint jerked his head upright at that, eyes focusing in on the door intently. “Why didn’t he say so,” he grumbled as he pushed himself up with great apparent effort and dragged himself off the bed. 

All that earned him was getting himself tripped up on the edge of the comforter that trailed the floor, nearly falling face first on the carpet as a result. He caught himself on the chair tucked against the wall by the small television stand, glaring at Natasha with a betrayed look when she laughed.

Throwing the door open, he immediately snatched the pizza boxes from a slightly startled Bucky and turned back into the room, forcing Bucky to lunge forward and catch the door to prevent himself from being locked out again.

“Jeez, you’re welcome,” he muttered, closing it behind him and sliding the lock over the door.

“Thanks,” Clint said belatedly, shooting him a shit-eating grin before he turned back to the box he had flipped open on the nightstand and shoved a slice into his mouth, plopping back down on the edge of the bed.

Bucky sat on the armchair, kicking a foot up on the bottom edge of the bed as he leaned forward to accept the second box and the water bottle that Natasha passed his way. Scooting across the bed, Natasha had to force Clint to quit hoarding the other box to himself.

They worked their way through the two pizzas in relatively comfortable silence, the exhaustion finally setting in and setting in  _ hard  _ after a full day of travel, a couple hours of sleep, and then another day occupied by shopping trips to hardware and technology stores, planning, arguing, and a lengthy stakeout.

Clint pushed the box and its last two slices over to the corner of the bed between Natasha and Bucky before he flopped back across the comforter, throwing his arms behind his head and his spine arching off the bed as he stretched, his sweatshirt riding up, and groaning borderline inappropriately.

Natasha shook her head, her expression pained not that Clint saw it, so she elbowed him instead. She saw Bucky duck his head, face shielded as he rubbed at his brow with one hand like he had a headache building. That didn’t stop her from catching a glimpse of the brief flush of pink across his cheekbones. 

All the more interesting.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sticks and stones and all that, but as if he could ignore just about any of the words that came out of that man’s mouth. And that was when they were actually  _ words  _ and coordinated syllables, not just the bad porn level type of sighs and fucking  _ moans  _ he didn’t seem to be aware he was making as he stretched and flopped loosely across the bed, never able to sit still. It was obscene, and he didn’t know why it felt like he was the only one who thought that.

Bucky avoided looking directly at him for the most part, but it was a small hotel room they’d convened in, and Clint wasn’t making it easy for him to not look.

Natasha was still looking awful pleased with herself as she went about her self-delegated work analyzing the camera footage and jotting down the occasional note on the timing of the patrol and guard rotations. It was simple work though, beginner stuff, so he’d let her have it to herself. And where she was sitting, Clint was curling up against her side or half sprawled across her lap, only making more of those fucking sounds as she ran her fingers through his hair.

He was conflicted, really, because partly he  _ was  _ adorable but also that was  _ not  _ something he was allowed to think about and that was  _ not  _ something people were supposed to do in front of other people, because it was just indecent really, and no, it one hundred percent was not jealousy that he felt gnawing at his insides as he was subjected to watching that. He was not jealous of Natasha right then. Because personal space. Because it’d be weird. Because his and Clint’s relationship wasn’t like that. 

And if that thought didn’t do things to him...

“Clint, look at this,” Natasha said, interrupting the trainwreck in the making that was Bucky’s internal monologue. She slid the laptop across the bed a margin so he could better see it where he was currently lounging across the bed behind her, pointing to a spot on the screen.

He rolled over onto his side with a muffled grumble, rubbing a hand across his eyes and blinking at the screen. He frowned, confused for a moment before resigning himself to the fact that he would have to scoot closer for a more thorough inspection. He dragged himself forward until he was lying on his stomach in front of the laptop, chin propped up on his hands, his weight on his elbows, eyes half-lidded as he looked at whatever had interested her. 

It was too dark at the moment to see what exactly on the roof of the building she was pointing to in the footage. “Did you see what this is?”

“Mhmm,” Clint hummed affirmatively. “A/C unit. Industrial.” He rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as he continued. “Recognized the brand. Grainger. They only do twenty by twenty-five inches at that size. Tight, by doable. See it with suspended ceilings, though. Not weight bearing,” he said, rattling off all the relevant facts he knew. “So that’s a no-go for entry.”

Natasha considered that silently, but Bucky exhaled heavily, letting his head fall back against the wall. “You have an inordinate depth of knowledge about A/C systems,” he observed.

Still flat on his back, Clint craned his head back, arching off the bed a little in order to glance at Bucky, grinning lazily, rather than do the normal thing and roll over. He dropped back onto the mattress. “Impressive, I know. You’d be surprised how versatile that type of knowledge is,” he said, sarcastic. “For example, makes for great dirty talk- very exciting.”

Natasha snorted in laughter and swatted at him, her mouth twisting in amusement, and Bucky sighed, sounding pained even to himself as he slouched lower in his chair. 

“What, don’t believe me?” Clint asked, rolling over onto his stomach, eyes fixed on Bucky with a mischievous glint, like there was a thought forming there. “Challenge accepted.” 

And that was the last thing he wanted him to do.

Never breaking eye contact with Bucky, who found himself unable to drag his own eyes away, Clint crawled toward him on his elbows, raising himself up a little higher and doing something downright suggestive with his hips as he dragged them along the bed, crawling closer, the thin material stretched tight over his chest.

Bucky’s jaw tensed unintentionally and his breath only caught in his chest for a second, watching unblinking at whatever Clint was doing. 

“Just let me tell you about the best damn A/C brand you can get,” he purred slowly, dropping his voice low and drawing his bottom lip between his teeth for good measure, grinning something that promised absolutely no pure intentions.

Bucky didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or die. Probably die. He would’ve gotten up then and there and left- just left the room- if the thought to do so hadn’t escaped him as soon as his eyes caught on where his jeans slipped sinfully low as Clint crawled forward, the sharp line of his hip bone underneath.

“No-” Natasha interjected, finding her limit, but he ignored her, his eyes still fixed on where Bucky sat, frozen.

“Sunvac Industries offers a-” he cocked his head to the side, the tip of his tongue flicking out as he licked his lips- “wide variety of architecturally integrated ventilation systems,” he continued, breathing in sharply and letting out a breathy gasp. 

That jarred him out of it. The rational part of Bucky’s brain caught up with the not so rational part, taking back the wheel and tearing his eyes away, letting his head fall back against the chair until he was staring at the ceiling. He thought about baseball stats, about the exact weird puce color of the walls, about reciting the alphabet backwards. Anything but this.

“Oh my god-” Natasha swore, and more vehemently, “ _ enough _ .”

“That means weight bearing-” and Bucky could just  _ hear  _ his mouth curling around the word- “and nice and roomy at a minimum thirty-five inch-”

He heard a thump followed by Clint yelping in pain. He looked back up in time to see Clint swearing softly under his breath as he rubbed his shoulder, eyeing Natasha bitterly, like she might bite. She just cuffed the back of his head, try as he might to flinch away.

“And I was just about to work in the innuendo,” he pouted, disappointed, but he had the humility to look a little sheepish. A little.

“Stop it,” she demanded, scowling at him and pushing him toward the edge of the bed. “Get off my bed. You think anyone wants to see that? No, we don’t.”

“I take offense to that,” Clint said, pushing himself up onto his knees. “I’m a connoisseur, and very skilled at-” he yelped in surprise again when, as he was already on the edge of the bed and off balance, Natasha reached out and shoved him hard, sending Clint reeling backward off the bed and onto the floor.

Natasha glanced back at Bucky, who did his best to make a speedy recovery and not project just how thrown he was. He blinked a few times, and ran a hand through his hair. “Well,” he said, swallowing a little dryly. “That was…” He didn’t know what it was. “Something.”

Laying on the floor, Clint raised a solitary hand above the mattress, middle finger directed toward Natasha. “You’re just jealous of my-”

“Don’t say it,”  Natasha snapped. 

Clint tried to swallow his laughter, having succeeded at staying deadly serious up to then. He resorted to clearing his throat instead, forcing a straight face. “Of my  _ impressive  _ knowledge of air conditioning systems.” 

He broke down into a fit of giggles after that, collapsing onto the floor out of sight.

“Can we please get back to the planning the illegal breaking and entering part? So I can leave and go to bed?” Bucky pleaded. He let himself sound a little exhausted, and probably entirely regretful about the whole situation.

“To bed, you say?” Clint tried to ask seriously, but couldn’t stop the breathless fit of laughter.

“Stop,” Natasha snapped, cutting him off before he could start. She looked apologetic for him, for what it counted. Focusing on the laptop screen again, she sighed in exasperation. “Clint, can you please be a normal human being for ten seconds and tell us if you have any ideas about this?”

His head popped up over the side of the bed, resting his chin on the edge. “Uh-huh.” He reached over to point at a vague dark part of the roof on the screen. “Over there’s a big one of those stupid ceiling-window-light-whatchamacallits. Those things are fucking easy. Massive security flaw. Use ‘em all the time.”

“A sky light?” Bucky asked, unimpressed.

“Yeah, that,” Clint said. “It’s not quite overtop of the lobby, kinda behind it. Hallway probably. You know, behind that door in the lobby?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Natasha said, staring intently at the screen as she thought. 

“Do you have a particular job in mind?” Bucky asked. 

“Hmm, no,” she said, thinking. “No, actually I was thinking a more laissez-faire approach.”

Bucky looked at her skeptically. “You want to wing it?”

“Weird,” Clint mused. “Usually that’s my suggestion.”

“No, I don’t want to ‘wing it’,” Natasha corrected, like that should’ve been obvious. “I just don’t want to overcomplicate it.”

“Okay great,” Clint said, like that settled it. “I’m all for just seeing what happens. Improv. Should be fun.”

Taking a measured breath, Natasha was going to respond with something undoubtedly scathing but Bucky beat her to it. “Yeah, no. No improv. We still need a plan.”

“What I mean,” Natasha said, her patience running dry, “is we have two main goals in mind, the first being to obtain the necessary blueprints and the second being to get it done without anyone knowing we were there. It’s a simple job. Let’s not do more than we have to. ’

Clint looked a little confused. “You wanna run a cut and dry B an’ E?”

“Sorry,” Bucky smirked, “no light show this time around.”

“How ‘bout a Barney Rubble?” he asked, still hopeful.

“No,” Natasha said.

“A Leon Spinks?”

“No.”

He sighed, somewhere between pained and bored. “Well that’s shitty.”

“Anything too elaborate is just more opportunities to make a mistake,” Natasha explained, but she did look sympathetic. “It means-”

“Oh I know what it means,” Clint interrupted, hauling himself back up to sit on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped deflatedly. “It means you’re gonna send me inside to do the dirty work while you two keep the car running and keep an eye on the guard rotation.” To be fair, that was pretty accurate. “You know, I’m starting to see a trend here.”

“Look,” Natasha tried to justify it, “any sort of con means that they’re going to see our faces. Any sort of trick means that those guards or someone is going to see something out of the ordinary that makes them remember that something was off that night. We want it to be ordinary, Clint,” she said, shrugging like there was no other way around it. “Quiet, ordinary, in and out with no trouble. That’s just how this one’s going to be.”

Giving up on changing her mind, Clint looked to Bucky to take his side. He just shrugged, backed into a corner on this one. Logically, tactically, he agreed that simpler was better. “Sorry dude, I’ve gotta agree with her on this one.”

“Aw,” Clint complained, flopping backward on the bed and staring dejectedly up at the ceiling. “Who’s side are you even on anyway?” he muttered a little bitterly, but mostly pouting.

“You’ll get over it,” Natasha assured him, reaching over to pat his shoulder with an apologetic smile.

“Besides,” Bucky said, clearing his throat. “We could all probably do with a little less excitement in our lives.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

They’d been in there for another hour, the three of them, planning the job down to the finest details they could manage, or predict really, given how little they knew about what was waiting inside the building for them. Or, waiting for Clint, really. If either of them saw the inside, something had gone horribly wrong.

Regardless, they were putting top tier work into what was clearly an amateur job, but that was what Steve asked for. ‘Don’t cut any corners,’ he had said. ‘Can’t leave any traces,’ he had said. That was all well and good. Bucky didn’t have any problems with the plan. Thing was, Steve didn’t say fuckin’ shit about being locked in a room for hours with  _ that  _ man, who- because he thought he was so goddamn funny- was relishing every opportunity to drive him up the fucking wall.

Bucky wasn’t even sure it was intentional on his part. He didn’t know if he hoped it was, either.

He was only slightly mortified. More than slightly mortified, maybe. He had lost his ability to freaking speak, and still all he could think about was… Clint and his goddamn A/C systems… and what he had been doing with his goddamn hips. 

“Yo, Buck, hold up.” Clint’s voice jarred him out of autopilot, calling after him down the hallway though he kept it low, the time being past one in the morning.

Of fucking course. He ground to a halt. “What?” he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral, absent of whatever knotted mess he was wrapped up in. He turned back to look at him, forcing himself to loosen the tension between his shoulders. From the cautious look that flicked across Clint’s face, he wasn’t too successful.

Still, Clint walked down the rest of the stretch from Natasha’s door to the spot where Bucky had stopped on his way to his own. He came to a stop in front of him, expression uncertain and grinning guiltily as he leaned a shoulder against the wall.

“I just- uh-” Clint was suddenly hesitant, ducking his head and lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck. When he looked back up he only made eye contact with Bucky in brief glances, mostly fixing his gaze on some distant spot over his shoulder. “I just wanted to know- uh-” he changed course- “You’re good, right?” The words tumbled out in a rush, and weren’t about to stop there. “Because you’ve been kinda weird since the stakeout and all and I- well that was maybe over the top, I’ll admit. I was… just…” his words trailed off and he made a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. 

Bucky shifted his weight forward almost imperceptibly, drawn forward like by gravity, tilting his head to the side a fraction as he looked careful at him, weighing up every detail. Clint’s eyes darted up again to meet his when he registered it, wide-eyed and throat bobbing as he swallowed dryly. Bucky was only an inch or two taller, but with barely a foot between them, it showed.

“You were just…?” His voice was low, trying for quiet but coming out just a little rough around the edges. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

“Kidding,” Clint decided, far short of convincing. He glanced at the floor again, clearing his throat. “Funny. Ha ha. So I’ll just-”  He didn’t move though, only shifted his weight back a little like he was trying to but couldn’t quite manage it.

Bucky started to take a half step forward, forcing Clint to step back, but with his shoulder already against the wall, backward ended up meaning rotating to the side, and both his shoulder blades ended up pressed against the wallpaper as Bucky stepped forward again, mirroring his turn, facing him. The distance between them narrowed, but Bucky stopped himself, frozen.

What was he doing? What was he  _ doing _ . His heart was pounding against his rib cage, and that panicky voice was warning him in the back of his head to back the hell up, that this was not the plan, not okay, abort abort abort. There  _ was  _ no plan. And if there had been one, this certainly would not be in it.

Bucky kept a neutral expression no matter how he felt his own heart beat faster as he felt Clint’s quick, shallow breaths brush across his collar. They were that close. Close enough to casually lean on his forearm against the wall next to Clint’s shoulder, but he stopped himself short of leaning in any closer, certain that he was simultaneously already too close and yet so very far away. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky said, the edge of his mouth curling upward as he nodded once, slowly. “I’m fine. We’re all good.”

Clint swallowed again, tilting his head further back against the wall, glancing between the arm that had him sufficiently caged in place and Bucky’s face. His eyes caught on that smirk before he dragged them away, turning his head aside a fraction to stare at the dull wallpaper across the hallway. 

“Oh, okay,” he managed to reply, a little shaky. Clint took a stilted breath, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down as he determinedly kept his eyes fixed on the far wall.

Exhales were hot and uneven between them, filling the silence of those few inches of space- that very well could’ve been the only few inches of space in the universe as far as Bucky was concerned- as the seconds dragged on for what he was sure was far too long. 

He should go. He should really go.

But the faded, worn fabric of Clint’s shirt was stretched at the neck, loose and hanging just below a patch of smooth, unblemished skin above his collarbone that pulsed right along with Clint’s heart. And Bucky wanted to put his mouth on it. Wanted to make it not so perfect.

Except back up. Take about fifty steps back, and then some more. 

_ That  _ realization hit him hardest. That he wanted to. And that should be stupid, right? Just wanting something. Except that was the direction he was not going. That he’d been telling himself he was not going. That he’d been ignoring because of just how not-goable it was. Because Clint was not that sort of friend. Clint was just his friend and he trusted him, trusted him when he borderline panic attack, trusted him enough to let down his guard around him, and that meant he trusted him to not do something stupid and selfish like that. Right?

Because a month ago, he’d been a fucking mess. Still was. He barely agreed to this stupid job. Barely thought he was up for it. He most certainly was not up for whatever the hell this was. And Clint didn’t deserve that. 

But it wasn’t like the bell could be unrung. And no matter how many times or in how many ways he made excuses for himself this time, it was too late. He knew that he wanted to and there was no changing that. 

That didn’t mean he was going to act on it though.

Right.

Except Clint’s head was tilted away just enough, a dazed look on his face, and if he leaned forward just a few more inches he could. And if he wanted to work his way up the column of his neck to the corner of his mouth and the lip Clint was already nibbling at, he could do that too. He was having a little difficulty remembering the down-side.

He bit down on his lip hard, still thinking about it. He smirked, breathing out a gentle laugh when he saw Clint’s eyes dart down to fix on it, a quiet noise sounding dangerously close to a whine escaping his throat. 

Except he wasn’t going to. Because the ‘could’ scared him. He  _ wasn’t _ . Because there were too many ways it could backfire. There was no plan. He had no idea what would happen. There were no escape routes. No un-dos or retries. 

“Alright, then,” Bucky said, low and a little breathless himself. He forced himself to lean back a fraction. “So you should…” He tilted his head down the hall.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, his eyes not quite focusing. “That’s- so I’ll just…” he made a vague gesture to nowhere in particular.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed in agreement. “Probably should.”

Somehow, telling himself it was time to go now didn’t really make himself listen. But he was always crap at taking orders anyway. Didn’t know why he expected any improvement now.

Clint had kept his arms firmly pressed to his side all the while, but kept clenching and opening his hands like he was dying to move them. Bucky didn’t know whether it was self-control or a sense of paralysis that kept Clint there. He didn’t know whether it was a  _ lack  _ of self-control or paralysis that kept himself there. 

“Buck,” Clint breathed out, almost too quiet to catch. He was going to say something else, but the sound and the breath died in his throat, giving up on it.

“Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head to the side and glancing down at the pulse at the hollow of his throat with unflagging interest. 

Clint inhaled sharply, dropping his gaze until his eyes had practically fallen shut. He didn’t seem inclined to open them again at the moment. “I-  _ fuck _ ,” he breathed out, barely audible, shuddering and clamping his jaw shut tight.

Right. Now he’d made him uncomfortable. Excellent work, Barnes. Great strategy.

If there was ever a time to commit himself to an exit strategy- because he really couldn’t drag it out like that forever, and because the longer he stayed the more terrified he was of making an irredeemable mistake- it was then. 

Bucky tilted his face in to Clint’s, leaned in, didn’t linger for more than a second at the brush of his lips ghost-like over Clint’s skin. He pressed his mouth gently, barely there to his cheek, and then he pulled away. “Goodnight,” he said, low and ragged, and clear his throat, stepping away.

Before he turned away Clint’s eyes flew open, locked on Bucky’s gaze, his pupils blown wide, bitten lips parted slightly as he panted softly. But he didn’t move, or say anything, or do  _ anything  _ that suddenly made it okay, and just stayed frozen in place, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

So Bucky took another step backward before he could rethink, and he was gone, turning and already putting distance between himself and the temptation to make an undoubtedly regrettable decision.  _ Another  _ undoubtedly regrettable decision, that is.

Because he would already have plenty to regret in the morning. Hell, he was already regretting it.


	8. Stage 4: pre-game prep, a.k.a., the coining of the “Swedish detour”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels so late, I'm sorry :((( but I've had a hell of a month, the highlight being someone spoiling Infinity War for me by revealing any and/or all character deaths that may or may not happen (I'm trying to avoid spoilers for y'all here lol, so you don't suffer my same fate). So basically as a result I've sworn off Marvel canon, it does not exist to me, it is only a mere suggestion for fanfiction.
> 
> Therefore, there's this. The longest goddamn chapter yet, which I really should've split into two, but holistically there was no good place to do that and thematically I feel like it all belongs together. Maybe say something nice about it in the comments??? because my morale right now is... quite low.

_ “Number one is making his rounds now,”  _ Natasha’s voice, cool and collected, warned them over the comms. She identified which guard was on the move by the more helpful, if unoriginal, numbering they had agreed to. 

Bucky leaned against the wall, hidden in the shadow of the store behind the warehouse- the same one Clint had placed the camera on top of, that Bucky had just needed to retrieve not even thirty minutes ago. He’d turned the comms off for that. He wasn’t about to let either of them know that Clint made it look ridiculously easy. 

_ “James, you’ll have eyes in three… two… one…” _

“Got him,” he said, seeing the guard emerge from behind the front corner of the building from his own position. The guy was making his timely patrol, heading around back and walking toward the parking gate structure where number three was sitting. “I’ll let you know when.”

_ “Cool, thanks,”  _ he heard Clint’s voice- flat and utterly uninformative over the comms. But that was probably just because of the tension of the situation, he reminded himself. Probably.

He tried to push that creeping thought out of his head. Clint had maybe spoken four or five words total to him over the course of the entire day, right up until they left for the job that night. He was just quiet. Abnormally so. But when he did talk he’d sounded fine, normal, pleasant even, like nothing happened. His tone was well rehearsed.

This, Bucky came to realize, was what regret felt like.

He watched the guard check in with and depart from their third guy in the parking lot relatively quickly, continuing around the back side of the building. He watched him do a quick check around the far corner, looking down the street that ran parallel that side, and take a sweeping look around before swiping his access key at the back door and disappearing inside.

“Now,” he said as soon as it was clear. “Be quick about it.”

Because and only because he was watching for him, Bucky saw a dark figure dart across the short distance between a car parked on the side of the street and far edge of the warehouse, moving quickly. He watched- only realizing he was holding his breath until after it was all said and done- as Clint took a running leap at the brick, almost gliding up the brickface. He caught hold of what must have been a tiny ledge here or a well-weathered crack in the facade there and hauled himself upward to the next. Once he reached a set of pipes affixed vertically to the wall, he was at the top in seconds, rolling over the flat edge and disappearing from sight.

_ “Are we good?”  _ Clint asked over the very faint crunching sound of gravel as he moved, crouching low over the shallow edge of the roof.  _ “I mean-”  _ the crunching paused-  _ “I’m in the clear?” _

Bucky didn’t see any activity from number three at the parking structure, and as far as he could tell number one was finishing his rounds inside the warehouse. “Affirmative.”

_ “Alright. Waiting on the green light. Let me know when,”  _ Clint said, tone still as flat and detached as ever. 

But they were in the middle of a job. He didn’t know what he was expecting if not that. Maybe he should just be grateful and forget about it. He wasn’t sure anything else would go over very well.

He could practically hear Natasha smirking.  _ “Don’t I always?” _

Bucky couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the adrenaline rush. It was familiar, expected, usually part of the fun part of the job, but now it just made him feel uneasy. Like he couldn’t stand still for too long, which happened to be exactly what he was supposed to do.

He kept a careful eye open for any sign of trouble and waited.

He’d had to seriously question if he’d dreamt the whole thing up. Last night. Back at the hotel. Him and… And Clint. He didn’t think that he had, but then he’d convinced himself that it  _ was  _ all a dream, right until he started to doubt it, and then became quite sure it wasn’t. It was too vivid, too tangible. And he was certain that his dream-self would not have demonstrated the same self-control, so things would have taken a  _ very  _ different turn. 

For a few reasons then maybe, he wished it had been a dream.

_ “Number one is back in the lobby,”  _ Natasha advised a few minutes later from her position in the car, parked near their stakeout location on the street.  _ “Everyone’s where they should be.” _

“Copy that.” Bucky looked down at his phone, starting the timer. “Any movement on your end, Clint?”

There was a moment’s pause, long enough to not be quite right, but not long enough for Bucky’s head to catch up with his thundering heart and tell it to calm the hell down because that was unreasonable. There was absolutely no reason to be so- whatever the hell he was being. Because this was nothing. Lowest risk operation he’d pulled, maybe ever. Mission critical in the long-term, yes, but it wasn’t like life or limb was on the line. 

He didn’t get the sense anyone else was that off-put either. So this tension settling down on his shoulders was strictly a him problem.

_ “Nope. I got nada.” _

“You’ve got a green light then.”

_ “M’kay,”  _ was all he got in reply. 

He watched the time tick down. Fidgeted with his sleeve cuffs. He took a sweeping look around, but not a detail out of place. He pressed himself deeper into the shadow of the building, the freezing cold of the concrete wall sinking through his coat. Checked the time again. Only ninety seconds gone.

“Do you have the skylight open?” he asked, because unless he was updating them, both he and Natasha were in the dark. Literally. And damnit if he didn’t hate being left in the dark.

_ “Quit nagging. I’m prying it off right now,” _ Clint said sounding strained, the words forced out between grit teeth as he worked to get the heavy glass panel out of it’s setting.  _ “These things aren’t exactly made to-”  _ a sharp inhale, pause-  _ “to open. Just gimme a minute.” _

“Just try not to make too much noise,” he reminded him, too jumpy about the whole thing not to. In retrospect, he didn’t like this plan. If anything went wrong, he was too far away to do anything. “We don’t know how close the other three still inside are to you.”

_ “No shit, Sherlock,”  _ Clint tried to mock, probably accompanied by an eye roll, but the effect was lost as he was clearly struggling with the task at hand. Usually he’d have already talked their ears off and worked his way through at least two obscure movie references and one really bad pun by then. Instead he went about his task quietly, excepting the errant frustrated curse muttered under his breath. Clint paused what he was doing, taking a deep breath. “ _ Do I tell you how to do your job?” _

_ “Easy, boys,”  _ Natasha intervened, not that Bucky was going to respond and escalate it any further anyway. He knew when he messed up. He seemed to be doing a lot of that. _ “Take your time, Clint. You can always wait to go in until after the next rotation, and start at the top of our next window.” _

That was, admittedly, sound logic. Bucky took a breath, forcing his abnormally jittery nerves to calm down, making himself focus. Clint, despite… well, just about every pretense and appearance, was more than capable. He reminded himself that he, and that all of them, had each done a lot riskier before in a lot worse circumstances, and had a plenty high success rate to show for it.

“Time isn’t something we’re short on,” Bucky agreed, mostly to himself, but the comms picked up everything.

_ “Oh,”  _ Clint said, faux-surprise obvious. Bucky heard something that might have been a very faint metal clatter over their frequency.  _ “Now he’s captain obvious,”  _ he muttered. Frustration was beginning to bleed through the neutral tone he’d been maintaining all day. 

Bucky sighed, frustrated in turn that he couldn’t make a single right move. “I didn’t mean-”

_ “You know it’s one thing to say ‘we’ve got all night’,”  _ Clint said, sardonic and increasingly bristling,  _ “but I think we’re forgetting who’s actually gonna be the one working all night.” _

_ “Alright enough,”  _ Natasha interrupted, playing referee, though her tone clearly suggested she wasn’t thrilled that she had to.  _ “No more talking unless it’s mission critical.” _

Bucky pushed down the feeling of dread that was steadily creeping up to crush his chest, immobilizing, filling up his lungs with anything but oxygen. He forced the feeling aside. “Copy that,” he said, falling silent.

_ “Sure. Whatever,”  _ Clint muttered, falling silent.

The quiet was only more unnerving. The cold bit deeper.

It was another- Bucky checked the time, gritting his teeth- eleven minutes before Clint’s voice, a little out of breath but tinged with relief, interrupted the radio silence.  _ “Got it,”  _ he declared. 

_ “How are we on time?”  _ Natasha asked.

“Not great. Just under fifteen,” he said. “We should wait for our next window.”

_ “Fifteen plus another ten for them to finish rotation?”  _ Clint reminded them, sounding doubtful.  _ “I can at least get a quick look around, figure out the lay of everything so I’ll be faster next time. Better than freezing my ass off out here.” _

_ “If you think you can manage.” _ Natasha left it up to him.

“It’s not just a patrol,” Bucky said, “in fifteen they’re due for a guard rotation. They’ll be moving inside, plus we already don’t know what the other three are up to between shifts. Best not risk it,” he said. 

Clint was silent for a moment, and Bucky honestly didn’t know if he would pay what he’d said any mind whatsoever.

_ “Fine,”  _ he finally decided, though he didn’t sound entirely pleased with it.  _ “I’ll wait it out, see if I can’t see where these guys are coming from. I’ve got a pretty decent view of the hallway actually. Couple doors. Figure I can at least learn which to avoid.” _

He couldn’t help but feel relieved. “Sounds good. I’ll let you know five minutes out.”

_ “Yeah.” _

He occupied his time counting the cars that came down either adjacent street from the intersection, keeping track of makes, models, the colors as best he could tell given how dark it was, making sure no one drove by twice. There were no pedestrians, not that that seemed out of the ordinary for the temperature or the location or the time of night. He stayed alert, stayed focused, and couldn’t help but be painfully aware of how slowly the timer ran down.

Finally, finally, they had movement. It was Clint who tipped them off first.  _ “I’ve got the three of ‘em, comin’ toward the lobby from a room off the side. Nat, you should see- uh, wait.” _ He paused, continuing, but more like he was talking to himself. _ “Hold up buddy, what’re you doing?”  _

“Hey, what’s going on?” Bucky asked, having to stop himself from physically starting toward the building. “Barton? Update?”

_ “My two are leaving the lobby, headed back inside,”  _ Natasha said.  _ “Clint? Where’s my other three guys?” _

“Clint,” Bucky all but growled, increasingly pissed that this plan involved him not being able to see or do anything. 

_ “Chill, chill,”  _ Clint chided,  _ “all good up here. Everything’s fine, the next three are coming out… you should see ‘em, Nat. It’s uh, yeah it’s good, just- just a lil’ thing, a little snafu.” _

Bucky took a deep breath, and remembered to prepare the next thirty minute timer, but when he opened his mouth to speak Natasha beat him to it.

_ “What’s the problem?”  _

_ “I need one of those key card things.” _

_ “Why?” _ she asked.

_ “The three guys rotating in checked the door at the far end of the hallway, opposite the lobby, first. It’s locked. One of ‘em swiped in. The lights came on inside and I got a quick look- lots of shelves, boxes n’ shit- that’s where I need to go.” _

The guard shift was underway. Two guys walked through the lot toward the back of the building, one of them replacing the guard stationed by the parking gate, with the other continuing his perimeter check before he swiped his key and followed the now off duty guard in through the back. 

“All settled back here,” Bucky said, getting a grip, forcing himself to run through the options. “Numbers four and six headed through the back, ETA four minutes. Clint, any way you can get around it?”

_ “Uh, thinking, I’m thinking,”  _ he said, drawing the words out, mulling them over.

Natasha spoke next.  _ “Without a key card, any other options?” _

_ “I mean, I can pry the cover off and the panel and splice the wires, but they’re gonna know as soon as someone tries to swipe in next, or I- I can-”  _ He fell silent.

“What?” Bucky asked. “You can…?”

_ “How long on those two making their way up here?”  _ he asked. There was something annerving about how obviously the wheels were turning in his head.

“Clint, what-”

_ “What are you thinking,”  _ Natasha interrupted, sounding just as off-put as he felt. 

He was talking quickly, probably already moving.  _ “These doors just have deadbolts, simple notches and lock-stop frame by the look of it- nothing fancy. I’ll just pop down there, I can jam the bolt-” _

“No,” Bucky said, “definitely not. You’ve got like three minutes-”

_ “I can do two.” _

_ “That’s just an  _ average _ , Clint,”  _ Natasha reminded him.  _ “It’s been off every time.” _

_ “There are no cameras in there,”  _ Clint said, like that somehow made it better.

“Clint-”

_ “I just fix the bolt and when they come through from the back it won’t lock behind them. They open it for me. I’m already-” _

“Clint, don’t be  _ stupid _ ,” Bucky swore, every fiber of his being rejecting the very idea of Clint going in there when-

There was a faint grating sound over the comms. That’d be the skylight. Open.  _ “I’m going in. Barnes, keep the time.” _

“Clint, Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you  _ don’t have time _ ,” he barely kept himself from yelling, biting back as much of the panic that gripped him as he could. 

_ “Clint,”  _ Natasha’s voice, the voice of reason, broke through.  _ “I don’t think-” _

No use. Bucky heard a gentle thud through the comms. _ “Inside,”  _ Clint hissed, voice low.

“Get the fuck out,” he swore. “Right now. It  _ isn’t worth it _ .” 

_ “Time.”  _ And then Clint stopped talking altogether. Now inside, with two guards somewhere in their with him and two more headed his way from the back, talking was probably not a priority.

_ “Damnit, Clint,”  _ Natasha sighed.  _ “James, run a countdown. Two minutes. No more.” _

His heart was in his throat. “I don’t-”

_ “Too late.”  _ She didn’t sound happy about it though. Not by a long shot.  _ “Just- two minutes.”  _ It sounded more consolatory than anything. 

Swearing under his breath, he glared at the seconds going by too quickly, too quickly but also like slow motion- “Ninety seconds” - and why the hell they were even in this position in the first place?  _ Off script _ . The plan on the back burner.  He had no idea, because they’d planned for a lot of things, but Clint going all Maverick on them, with this stupid unnecessary stunt, ignoring  _ reason _ , wasn’t one of them. 

“Sixty seconds,” he said through a tight jaw, glaring at the faintly glowing numbers like they’d done something wrong instead of the idiot that he felt unfairly responsible for. Or maybe attached to. Well, fuck him. He was going to kill him. This was ridiculous. He was going to get himself in trouble, get caught, blow the whole damn operation, and then jeopardize the entire bigger picture, everything they’d been working toward- “Thirty-”

_ “Done, got it,”  _ Clint said, breaking the tense silence. There was a similar dull grating sound, barely loud enough to get picked up, meaning the window was back in place, Clint’s tracks covered.  _ “I’m out and-” _

“I’m gonna kill you, you know that, right?” Bucky said, regardless of how he breathed out slowly in silent relief. 

Clint laughed, light and out of breath but exhilarated, like he was finally having fun.  _ “And in a minute thirty…”  _ He could just hear him grinning. He could  _ see  _ it.

“I swear to god, Barton-”

_ “Boys, please,”  _ Natasha sighed, the whole matter behind  _ her  _ apparently.  _ “We’ll get you marriage counselling later. Right now, focus.” _

_ “Eh- what?”  _ Clint paused awkwardly. _ “Uh- I just- oh, there’s our guy.”  _ Saved by the guard shift. _ “Number three’s coming through the door, and… hell yeah,”  _ he crowed, delighted with something.  _ “Okay, awesome. He didn’t look at the door twice, and there he goes. Into the side room with the rest of ‘em.” _

“You’ve got twenty-seven minutes, tops,” Bucky said. “And please-”

_ “Be careful, no unnecessary risks, be smart, we’re got plenty of time, etcetera,”  _ Clint rattled off, undoubtedly rolling his eyes.  _ “I’ve got it.” _

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Clint dropped to the floor, landing silently on the balls of his feet. He forgot how easy this was.

It felt pretty good.

He’d brought a thin cord with him up to the roof, wrapped around his waist, but that was just for ‘in case’. He found he didn’t need it though, just like he’d told them he wouldn’t, and so he left it up there. Christ, both Bucky and Nat had been all over the ‘in case’ nonsense, non-stop with the ‘what if this one-in-a-million chance thing happens’ worrying. Sure, he didn’t  _ actually  _ want to wing it, a plan was always good, but he wasn’t sure if they were aware or not that he was capable of reaching and pulling himself out of an open skylight set only eight feet in the air. 

He’s had a hard time convincing them of it, though. In the end, he resigned to bringing the stupid thing with him. Then again, judging accurate ceiling height inside a building from the outside might have been one of those weird skills pretty specific to him that he’d picked up somewhere along the way.

He hugged close to the wall more out of habit than out of necessity as he made his way quickly to the door. The tiny light over the panel mounted on the wall beside the door where the guards swiped their key cards hadn’t switched from green to red yet, which was good, but it also meant he was going to have to do something about that. 

The door handle turned readily, unlocked. He pulled the door open carefully, grateful for well oiled hinges. Before he slipped inside however, it took him about a minute to remove his hastily placed, bent all out of shape paper clip from where it was jammed into the bolt socket of the steel reinforced door frame. Not of course until he double checked that, as he suspected because of fire safety and all that, it only locked people out, not in. He would rather die that have to tell Natasha and Bucky that he’d gone and locked himself in there like a complete dumbass. He’d find a way out, he wasn’t concerned about that, but they’d never let him live it down.

And, he really couldn’t deal with Barnes making any more fun of him than he probably already was. Definitely already was. Or was doing  _ something _ . He didn’t freaking know what. Clint had decided that the guy was worse with his jedi mind tricks than Natasha. But nope. He wasn’t thinking about that. Not in the middle of a job.

All those security precautions though, bested by office supplies that he’d found with the lint in the bottom of his pocket. He couldn’t help but grin at that, letting the door close with a click of the lock behind him. 

Yeah, okay, he’d seriously forgotten how fun this was. 

The only light in the room was the red glow of the fire exit signs, one over his head and one presumably over the back door, emanating through the dark. The latter was a ways away though. He got the idea that this room was more cavernous than he’d anticipated.

He pulled the pen light from the liner pocket of his jacket- the black close fitting fleece with all his customized handy pockets that he only pulled out for special occasions, like B&E- turning it on and flicking it around to get a better sense of what he was dealing with. 

“Hot damn,” he murmured, sidestepping along the wall to move to the right side of the room. He aimed the light up along the wall to check for any potential cameras above him, or along the walls to the sides. He didn’t find any, and continued. “I get why this place is, uh, ‘better equipped’.”

_ “What’s wrong?”  _ Bucky’s voice came over the comms. Hell, he really had the whole intensity thing down. He sounded like he was expecting Clint to tell him he’d found the entire Soviet Red Army in there or something. Or maybe he was just expecting him to inevitably fuck up. 

That thought twinged something uncomfortable inside his chest. 

“This place is freaking massive. It’s literally almost the entire building that makes up this one room,” Clint explained, still making a diligent check for any other security measures. Given the inside of the place looked like it was straight out of the stone age however, he wasn’t expecting any, nor did he find them. “The walls are lined with filing cabinets almost to the ceiling. I mean, they stacked them. Who stacks filing cabinets like that? Who even  _ uses  _ filing cabinets anymore, seriously.”

_ “Focus,”  _ Natasha reminded him.  _ “What are we dealing with?” _

“Then there’s rows and rows of shelves,” Clint continued, starting down one of the narrow aisles. “They’re stacked with those boxes that like, paper reams come in? It’s like, Area 51 in here. Like, have you ever been in a police station’s evidence lockup? Like that, except bigger.” He dragged a finger through the layer of dust on a shelf, grimacing. “And dustier. ”

He ran his light over the boxes at eye-level as he walked, finding each of them labeled in some sort of hopefully meaningful arrangement of numbers and dashes and words in a language he couldn’t read, presumably Swedish. Awesome.

“There is…” Clint trailed off. “A lot of shit here.”

_ “More than twenty-eight minutes worth of shit?”  _ Bucky asked. For the umpteenth time that night, he didn’t sound particularly optimistic about Clint’s abilities to do what he was fucking supposed to do.

He was really,  _ really  _ trying not to take it personally. 

It wasn’t  _ his  _ fault. Clint wasn’t the one who’d gone and- and pulled whatever that was in the hotel hallway last night and then, what, gone and gaslighted him? Pretended nothing happened? At this point, he couldn’t even comfortably rant to himself about Barnes pretending  _ nothing  _ happened because he didn’t know what  _ did  _ happen or what  _ nothing  _ would consist of. And, if nothing  _ didn’t  _ happen… if  _ something  _ happened, he had no idea what to call it. God this man was confusing.

Fucking hell. 

Clint snorted in frustration, even if only the dust and the mothballs were privy to the particular expression of distaste that crossed his face. “Yeah, well. We’ll see.”

It didn’t matter. He had work to do. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Natasha began to sound agitated, just enough of an edge to her tone for Bucky to know it was off.  _ “Clint, you have less than fifteen minutes until the next rotation and you need to be out of there.” _

There was the muffled sound of shuffling paper, followed by a dull thud and soft cursing under Clint’s breath.  _ “You don’t think I’m aware of that? I’m moving as fast as I can.” _

_ “You’ve already been in there for fifteen minutes, and you’re saying you’ve got nothing?” _

There was a pause as Clint took a deep breath, collecting himself.  _ “Natasha,”  _ he said slowly, and Bucky could picture him gritting his teeth,  _ “I am looking at,  _ easily _ , at least a thousand boxes and drawers here. I literally have to climb the shelves. And there is-” _

“Hey, it’s alright,” Bucky interjected, not liking any sort of escalation as long as Clint was still in there. “Push comes to shove, you can get out, do the same thing with the door, and try again. Just, what’s the situation?”

Clint took a breath, speaking slower.  _ “There’s some sort of archaic catalogue system, like Dewey decimal on PCP, and it’s mostly in Swedish. And I, for one, do not read Swedish.” _

_ “Well, you’re not alone there,”  _ Natasha said.

_ “So I’m mostly going off what I think are the dates, but I can’t begin to say what’s the day verse the year because the numbers and words keep switching orders between different sections. But occasionally I think I recognize something that might be a company name, so I’m hoping I’m gonna see the word ‘Veradex’ somewhere.” _

“Okay, that’ll work, but if it helps,” Bucky said, struggling to think of anything he knew about the language that might be helpful and recalling a brief job in Stockholm, “the dates are probably ordered year, month, then day. It’s a little different from the rest of Europe.”

Clint went quiet for a second, the comms filled with more shuffling and crackling of paper.  _ “Uh, you know what? Actually that might help. Thanks,”  _ Clint muttered, sounding otherwise occupied and like he was moving quickly now.

_ “That’s great,”  _ Natasha said,  _ “but it doesn’t change the fact that you’ve got- James, how many minutes now?” _

He winced, looking down at the time. “Twelve minutes fifte- actually, wait,” Bucky said, cautious. “The guy in the parking lot’s on his radio, looking like something’s up. Nat, how’s the lobby looking?”

_ “Fine,”  _ she said.  _ “No movement here. Both my guys are crowded behind the front desk over a computer monitor. Have been the entire shift.” _

“Clint, are you good in there?” Bucky asked, his old friend paranoia crawling up his spine.

_ “Yeah, I think I’m starting to understand this filing system, actually. I’m definitely in the right quadrant. I just-” _

“How long do you think you need?”

_ “Uh, five more minutes? Maybe? I think I’m good with-”  _ he went silent.  _ “Actually, check that _ ,” Clint muttered, voice suddenly low, barely audible.  _ “I’ve got movement on my end.” _

_ “What?”  _ Natasha sounded borderline offended, her default to be pissed off rather than alarmed when anything had the potential to go wrong.  _ “No one should be moving right now. The schedule-” _

“The schedule isn’t gospel,” Bucky interrupted with the obvious. “We’ve seen that.”

_ “Damnit,”  _ Natasha swore,  _ “Number five’s starting to move. Looks like he’s about to leave the lobby and make rounds. The guard shift’s happening early.”  _ The rest of that thought devolved into quiet Russian expletives. 

“Clint, what’s your status?” Bucky asked, but it was radio silence from his end. “Clint?” His anxiety was returning with a vengeance.

Still nothing. 

He was already starting forward out of the shadows of the building, every worst case scenario driving him another step closer to getting Clint the hell out of there.

_ “Clint, can you talk right now?”  _ Natasha asked. “Two clicks yes, four no.” 

And he should’ve thought of that. He stopped, only belatedly realizing that he might not have been breathing for fear of missing it.

But then, four clicks as Clint turned his device off and on twice. Bucky exhaled, berating himself for getting so close to such a stupid move and lurching backward, further away from the pool of yellow streetlight. 

_ “Are there guards in the room?” _

Two clicks yes.

“Are you in immediate danger of being seen?” Bucky asked, bracing for the answer.

There was a longer pause, Clint probably weighing it up, then four clicks. Bucky breathed a sigh of relief.

_ “How many?”  _ Natasha asked.

Two clicks. Two guards. 

They missed something. That was what happened when you had three guys, no tech but what you could get at your local hardware store, and a tight schedule that allowed no more than three days in the country. They knew it was a risk, but it was a small one. They hadn’t counted on anything coming of it. Looking back, it seemed amateur, hindsight being 20/20 and all that.

_ “Why the hell is this happening? There’s absolutely no reason that-” _

Something occurred to Bucky, alarmingly simple. It was laughable, really. Except it wasn’t. “Son of a bitch,” he swore. “Son of a-  _ damnit.”  _

_ “What?”  _ Natasha snapped.

“The radio,” he said. “Turn the car radio back on.”

_ “Now is not the time-” _

“The game,” he said, feeling all too much like punching the wall, if he wasn’t too aware of all that would get him. “There’s a big hockey game on right now. That’s probably what they’ve been watching this whole time,” he said, pissed that something so stupid, so against the odds had managed to trip the up. “And I’d bet good money it just hit intermission.”

There was a pause, then Natasha’s voice on the comms, indignant in the way that only raw stupidity could invoke.  _ “They’re breaking protocol, so they don’t miss a  _ sports game _?” _

“It doesn’t matter why,” Bucky said, unhappy that they’d wasted too much time already. He took a breath, focusing, pushing every other feeling down and squashing it. Hard. “Barton, you still good?” 

Two clicks yes. Clint would have to fend for himself for at least just a moment more.

“If that guy makes his rounds and comes in the back, will you still be good?” he asked.

There was a longer pause, settling uncomfortably on nothing but rigid tension as Clint must have evaluated the situation. 

Four clicks. That’d be a no.

“Okay, fuck,” Bucky muttered to himself, breathing in, forcing himself to calm down. “Okay. Nat?” It was an open ended question. One any sort of solution could satisfy. Because he had no idea what to do, short of unmistakably, perhaps with prejudice, but most likely with violence, announcing their presence.

_ “There’s movement in the lobby. You’ll see one of them headed your way in a moment,”  _ Natasha said.

“I’ve got him. The plan?” he asked, watching the guard cross the parking lot. He had a little more energy and speed behind his step than before. 

_ “How long before Clint has company?”  _ she asked, the sound of the car door closing carrying over the comms.

“Maybe four minutes,” Bucky said tersely. “What’s the plan here, Nat?” he repeated, trying not to sound desperate. 

_ “Clint, if I get those guys out of there for a minute or two, can you get clear?”  _ she asked, sounding like she was already on the move.

There were two clicks. Yes, that would have to do.

“ _ Natalia _ ,” Bucky snapped as he clocked her along the edges of the the dim streetlight, moving quickly toward the building. “What the hell is the plan here?”

_ “I’ll let you know when I figure that out myself,”  _ she retorted, sharp and leaving no room to question her. This was, after all, most definitely her wheelhouse now.

“Awesome,” he said, but he barely got the word out without choking on it, feeling like his heart was trying to crawl its way into his throat. He took a breath, steeling himself. “Guess I’ll just follow your lead.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Natasha shook her hair out of its clip, letting it lay in whichever way it fell. There had been a bottle of water in the car; she splashed it on her hands, making a hurried mess of smudging her makeup, taking special care to let her mascara run. It was dark out. It would pass.

She wasn’t wearing the best outfit for this sort of thing, But low-cut dresses were out of season. Regardless, she yanked visciously at the neck of her sweater until the seams had torn. She’d be billing Clint for that. It was one of her favorites.

The next step- what was always the next step in making anything look real, look tangible- was to rub a little dirt on it. Blood was good too, but she wasn’t about to smash her face against the car. Been there, done that once upon a time. They weren’t quite that desperate this time. Not yet. So instead she just threw herself to the cracked and crumbling sidewalk, making sure to scuff up her jeans at the knees and her elbows. A little dust and dirt and the gravel pebbles clinging to the material of her sweater was a finishing touch.

She looked, quite thoroughly, a mess. All in under a minute, too. Not bad.

She let the only car in sight pass before stepping into the low light, jogging across the street toward their building, her breath puffing white in the cold. “James, Clint, I’m engaging so I’m about to go off comms. Nobody be alarmed by what you’re about to hear.”

_ “Natasha-”  _ James sounded skeptical at best, maybe concerned. She ignored him.

“I assure you I have everything under control, but we’ll probably have somewhere between ten to fifteen minutes before police get here-”

_ “Before p- what? No, Natasha-”  _ There was a rapid series of clicks from Clint’s line.  _ “Yeah, no, I don’t think he likes this idea either, whatever th-” _

“I’m running point, my call,” she interrupted, no time to debate it. “James, what’s the status from your end?”

_ “One still at the parking gate, one headed toward the back door any second now.”  _ At least he had collected himself by then. But then, he  _ was  _ a professional, and despite his recent leave of absence, she knew he was more than capable. Frighteningly capable. When he wanted to be.

“I’m bringing them back to the front,” she said. “Sit tight James. I’m afraid in a minute I’m going to have to send them your way. You’ll know when.”

_ “To do… what?” _

“You’ll think of something.”

Across the street, she pulled the rather conspicuous bluetooth earpiece out and threw it into the gutter to hide among the trash and debris.

She paused in a shadowed blindspot, took a breath and collected herself, and then she screamed. 

She made sure to be loud, and long, and terrified, cutting through the still darkness. First indeterminable terror, nothing more, but then she switched into German. She didn’t know the native language- who did?-  so went with the next popular bet that wasn’t English. They’d probably know at least a little English. She could always switch into it need be, but the more she could falter and stumble her way through any actual narrative for these guys, conveying the least amount of intelligible information, the better.

She was already crying, screaming for help, willing the tears into existence, the sobs constricting her throat and turning screams to heaving wails until she could hardly breath. 

And then she ran. She ran right for the front doors, fully intending to beat her hands against the glass walls until some big brave man came to save her like the quaking little victim she was.

And damn if Clint wouldn’t owe her for this. She hated playing the damsel in distress.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

His heart skipped a beat when he heard it. If Natasha hadn’t warned them, vague as it was, he probably would’ve jumped right out of his skin. Almost immediately, he knew what she was doing. So instead, he froze, more than the temperature already had him, the creeping tendrils of sheer terror that her panicked yelling radiated sending unpleasant cold tingling up his spine.

Fucking hell, if he didn’t know her he would’ve thought she was dying. 

The guards he was keeping an eye on behind the building certainly did.

First they froze in their tracks, staring wide-eyed at one another as if they weren’t sure they could believe what they were hearing. Then the tension snapped, and they were already on their radios, both of them sprinting through the parking lot around to the front of the building.

He lost track of them around the corner. But he still heard her.

In was mostly impossible to understand, but he managed to pick out scraps of German, and a moment later, it was intermingled with broken English. It was… difficult to make it out, harder still to understand as upset as she had made herself, but the bits and pieces he did get were mostly what he expected. The ‘please someone help me’s and the sobbing and something about someone attacking her. Unoriginal, but her performance sold it.

He shifted backward a little along the wall, pushing further into the shadows. “Clint, you still good?”

There was silence for a moment, no clicks, but  _ finally _ , Clint’s voice came through. He was still quiet, still cautious, but it was a relief regardless. It was like there had been metal bands constricting Bucky’s chest, and he only then realized it as they fell away and he could breathe again.  _ “Yeah, I’m good, my guys run toward the lobby,” _ he whispered.  _ “Christ, is that Natasha? I can hear her from here.” _

At that moment however, she quieted down, but it was impossible to see what was happening.

“Yeah, she’s-” he didn’t know what exactly- “she’s good. But you’ve got-”

_ “Ten minutes?”  _ He sounded like he knew that was unrealistically optimistic.

He heard some distant yelling, not nearly as ear-piercing as before, more panicked though, just as he saw four of the guards- he lost track of which, or where they should’ve been- fan out in front of the building and around the corner, scanning through the dark, looking for something. Someone? And Natasha was louder again, completely hysteric, in and out of German and English intermittently.

“Five minutes,” he corrected, “so you better-” Some far-back corner of his brain registered what she was saying. “Hold on.” He listened closer. 

Describing a direction, talking about a person- a ‘he’- who did something, and who… she was describing that person now, but he could barely hear… but, whoever he was sounded  _ remarkably  _ like-

“Oh fuck,” he blurted out, suddenly backing away, looking around, taking stock of his situation.

There were four now, a fifth trailing behind, all of them coming toward the back, still looking like they didn’t quite know where they were looking, but their radios were all abuzz as they tried to figure that out.

_ “Bucky? What’s the matter?” _

“Fucking hell, Nat,” Bucky complained, not caring that she couldn’t hear him.

_ “Hey, what’s going on out there?”  _ Clint asked, sharper than before, concerned.

“Uh, nothing,” he said, probably unconvincing. “It’s just that I think Natasha just sicced an entire ex-hockey team on me is all.”

_ “What? Well that blows.” _

“Should be fine. They don’t know where they’re look- oh  _ come on _ ,” he swore, following it up with a number of choice words. Three of the guys split off from the rest in the warehouse’s parking lot, one of them listening intently on the radio, and motioning for the other two to follow. They were headed right for the back door. The back door that, if they opened, would put Clint in an unfortunate situation.

He looked around, his eyes landing on the rows of shiny refurbished cars that lined the lot of the car dealership, and a plan forming in the back of his mind. A really, really stupid plan- an outline of a general idea, really. But, then again, he’d definitely had worse.

_ “Not turning out so fine?”  _ Clint asked, his voice almost lost entirely in a flurry of shuffling paper as he continued doing whatever it was he was doing.

“Look,” Bucky said, jogging through the dark toward the car dealership now, but not before scrounging around the dumpsters out back for a moment and finding a solid metal pipe about the size of a baseball bat that would do the trick. “I’m gonna have to head these guys off. And I’m about to make a hell of a lot of noise, so I’m going offline for a minute.” He paused, his jaw going tight thinking about the situation that put Clint in. “Can you-”

_ “I’ll be fine,”  _ Clint assured him, and with that familiar tone it was probably accompanied by an over-confident eye roll and a lopsided grin.  _ “Do what you’ve gotta.” _

“Five minutes,” Bucky growled, ducking between a row of cars. “Then I swear to god I’m coming in there after you.”

There was a soft grunt from Clint’s end as he struggled with something before continuing.  _ “As much as I’d love to see that,”  _ he said, the bastard managing to sound amused,  _ “I think that’d give us bigger problems.” _

The three guards were almost at the back door. 

“Shit, I’ve gotta run,” he said, dreading the moment he would have to cut Clint off to avoid seriously fucking with his ears, but not wanting to let those guys get a single step closer that they already were either.

_ “Literally run?”  _ he asked, and damnit if that wasn’t a smirk.

“Stop enjoying this so much. Five minutes. Be careful, asshole.”

_ “No,  _ you  _ hang up,”  _ Clint mocked, the suppressed laughter bubbling at the edge of his tone.

“Fuckin’ dumbass,” Bucky muttered as he pulled the bluetooth device from his ear, unceremoniously turning it off and shoving it in his back pocket. 

And then he he jumped up onto the hood of a car, fully illuminated in a bright white floodlight, and with an overhead swing, brought the metal pipe down hard as he could on the windshield. Glass shattered, the metal reverberated painfully in his hands, and the obnoxious blare of the car alarm peeled through the night, the flashing headlights going up like a flare.

Just to make sure he got their attention though, he jumped down and continued on to the next car, smashing its side window in with a loud crash. Another car alarm, different from the first, trumpeted through the night.

There was yelling now, and running, closing in on where he stood. He wasn’t exactly hiding. For good measure though, and because he felt like things like that came in threes, he brought the pipe down decisively on the middle of the next car’s hood, leaving a massive dent and following up with smashing in its front window too. 

Yeah, that was enough. He swiped the sleeves of his sweatshirt over the pipe to rid it of any fingerprints and tossed it aside. 

He clocked all five of them, shouting something he didn’t catch (at him probably), sprinting right at him.

Awesome.

He let them get just a little closer, shaking out his hands which were just a little numb. He didn’t want to lose them too quickly and let them wander back toward Clint. Just a little closer…

Turning on his heel, he took off sprinting in the opposite direction through the dark, intending to run across the street and lose them in the tangle of crumbling brick buildings and cluttered alleyways and rows of rusted chain link fences.

Yeah… 

He really should’ve stretched.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

He was out of breath and felt frozen to his bones by the time he’d thrown the guards, made a wide loop through the sparsely populated neighborhood, and come back around to where they’d left the car from a different direction entirely. Bucky had ditched his coat and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up along the way in what was admittedly a meager attempt to avoid recognition, relying more on the dark night and a poorly dispersed and equally poorly maintained streetlamp system to do the rest.

He found that Natasha had left the keys on top of the back right wheel, their emergency drop spot; there were perks to being familiar with how people operated.

He couldn’t hear her any more, nor could he see her through the glass front of the building inside the lobby, where four of the night shift guards had reconvened, gathered around the front desk discussing something, all of them looking rather uneasy. The rest were either elsewhere inside the building or still out wandering in circles. He did hear sirens in the distance though, never a welcome sound.

And then there was Clint, who despite having surpassed his allotted five minutes, was nowhere in sight either.

He got into the car’s driver seat, but stopped short of turning it on. A little heat wasn’t worth the headlights or the engine drawing any attention.

“Clint, Nat, either of you back on?” he asked after returning his comm to his ear. He got nothing but silence, not even the faintest crackle to suggest that either of their ends were even turned on. “Barton?” He waited again, trying not to grind his teeth. There was no reason he should be offline. “Fucking hell,” he hissed, yanking the useless thing out and throwing it up on the dashboard probably harder than was necessary.

It left him feeling almost nauseous, with a pit in his stomach. He really did not like the sudden turn this night had taken.

He didn’t have long to think about it. He saw Natasha slipping out of the dark, staying carefully out of the line of sight from the warehouse lobby as she approached. He unlocked the door and she ducked into the passenger seat, closing the door quietly behind her.

She nodded to him first, silent recognition of what had happened and a sort of appreciation, but when she looked over her shoulder, her expressioned faltered at finding an empty back seat where she clearly expected it to be occupied.

She looked back at him, but Bucky kept his expression neutral, blank, trying to keep a grip. Those were definitely police cars tearing down the avenue toward them in the distance, followed by what might have been an ambulance, so idling was not longer an option. Starting the car, he pulled away from the corner and took a right at the intersection, the warehouse in the rearview mirror.

“He didn’t keep to the exit plan?” she asked, her voice hoarse from the screaming and sobbing.

“He wasn’t at the car, and he’s not on the comms. I have no way of knowing,” he answered, feeling resentful and worried all at once- an uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling. He hated it.

Natasha snatched his bluetooth device from the dash where he’d left it, listening for a second for the tell-tale static of a live frequency, and then dropping it into the center console with a displeased look. “Go back,” Natasha said, tone making it clear it was not up for debate. “Pull up the street down the left side, where it runs nearest the building.”

“Police are on scene,” Bucky informed her, but he wasn’t arguing the point. He turned down the next empty street in the direction they’d come from.

“And I’m sure they’re all very confused as to where I’ve gone,” Natasha observed, deadpan, clear that it didn’t matter to her. 

He grunted a noncommittal reply.

He made a wide loop around. They drove in from the back side, the building obstructing their view of the police and ambulance parked at the front, but the flashing glow of alternate red and blue lit up the night. Bucky slowed the car down to a crawl, resistant to the idea of parking or stopping completely with first responders already swarming.

“Stop here a moment,” Natasha said, but she was more watching the lights from around the front of the building than looking around for any sign of Clint. He took a breath to protest, but the sharp look she gave him changed his mind. She knew what they were doing, that much was clear, and he could see that she was worried just as much as he was. 

She let it show on her face, rather than remind him verbally of the fact. She didn’t need to rub it in his face. Or maybe she was kind enough not to.

He stopped that car along the shoulder of the street, the building only a couple yards to their left, a narrow strip of grass and sidewalk between them. He turned off the headlights, but kept it running. Waiting, the seconds dragged into minutes. His grip only tightened on the wheel, blood pressure rising until he finally turned to say something to Natasha. He didn’t know what, but from the look on her face she was going to snap right back. 

But they were both interrupted, flinching sharply at the loud, dull thud that came from the roof of their car without any warning.

There was a blur of dark to the side which both of their heads swivelled to catch as something-  _ someone _ , Jesus fucking Christ- rolled off the roof of the car, landing unceremoniously on the asphalt with a muffled groan.

Clint winced in pain as he hauled himself up to his feet quickly, leaning against the side of the car. The wild grin on his face though as he pulled open the back door and lurched inside, throwing himself across the back seats, quickly replaced it.

“What the ever-loving  _ fuck _ -” Bucky started to say, gaping at him, Natasha swearing violently and with equal surprise beside him, but they were both interrupted again by Clint slamming the door closed behind him.

“Drive,” he blurted out, staring at him from where he’d flopped on his back across the seats like it was both urgent and obvious. “Um, now? Cops?” He waved a hand in the direction of the lights.

“Tell me you did not just-”

“ _ Yes _ , I did, I jumped off the roof. I thought that was pretty obvious. Now freaking  _ go _ , man,” Clint said, forcing himself up into a sitting position and leaning forward between the front seats. Despite, or perhaps because of the urgency and the risk, he was wide-eyed and aware, panting slightly, chest heaving, but all of it offset by the lopsided smile that said he was enjoying every minute of it.

“Just- just drive,” Natasha urged him, her expression a complicated mix of relief and frustration, both with the situation and with herself for being concerned in the first place because of this idiot.

He did, clenching his jaw tight against the string of curses that threatened to spill forward and, pulling a sharp U-turn, focusing instead on putting as much distance between the three of them and the disaster behind them as quickly as was feasible.

“What the hell was that?” Natasha demanded, glaring daggers at him from where she twisted around in her seat to face him, punching his shoulder hard. Clint yelped in surprise more than pain, having the good sense to shrink back from her, his grin turning a little guilty.

“I mean, I could ask the same thing, before we start throwing stones,” he said. “Are you okay?” he asked, genuine concern touching his tone and look he gave her, though still cautious. “You look like a mess...”

Bucky snorted at that, given the more imminent issue of the mess they just left behind, but he kept his mouth shut, afraid of what might come out, and how it might come out, if he didn’t.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, even as she reflexively wiped again at where her eye makeup had run, her eyes still red from crying. It was easier to fall into the act than to recover from it, it seemed. “I didn’t  _ jump off a roof _ .”

“Hey,” he warned, “you didn’t see what I saw from up there. There were cops coming around the other side of the building, and that was faster and easier and objectively probably safer,” he stressed, talking too fast for him to catch his breath, his hands moving wildly and telling a story of their own.

She bit back a quick retort, taking a breath and visibly deciding it wasn’t worth it. Holding up a hand, she cut him off with a stern look, his train of excuses trailing off. “Enough,” she demanded, wincing and clearing her through, voice still painfully hoarse. 

Bucky jumped in. “Clint, are you okay?” he asked abruptly, glancing at him in the rear view mirror.

“Huh?” He jerked his head up, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as he panted lightly, caught off guard. 

“Are you okay?” Bucky asked, enunciating every syllable more forcefully. His knuckles were white on the wheel.

“Yeah,” Clint said, nodding, “I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint said, flopping back against the seat loosely, taking a few deep breaths and slowly grinning from ear to ear. “I’m good.”

His posture was languid, not a scrap of the wired tension Bucky and Natasha shared. Clint laughed breathlessly, biting his lip like that would help him reign it in after Natasha gave him a warning look. He looked… fuck, turned on was probably the best word for it, flushed and still panting and grinning like an idiot. Christ. 

“Fucking hell, you are ten pounds of crazy in five pound bag,” Bucky declared, more than a little accusatory. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Hey, I’m-” he froze, smile slipping. “Oh!” He jolted forward, twisting awkwardly in his seat as he began patting down his pockets.

“What?” Bucky asked, eyes automatically darting around in search of any red and blue lights or any sign of trouble, despite the sirens having faded into the distance.

Clint finally dug a hand into a jacket pocket, grinning victoriously. “I got it,” he said, smiling even brighter. He pulled out the compact digital camera that Bucky had admittedly forgotten all about, wagging it at Natasha with a stupid smirk as she glared back at him, snatching it out of his hand.

Bucky just stared blankly before putting his eyes back on the road. “You got…”

“The pictures,” he said, flopping backward and stretching his arms across the back. “The blueprints? I got ‘em.” 

It felt like his brain was playing catch-up. Somewhere distantly in his head he remembered why they’d been there, what they were doing, but that had all gone on the back burner after shit went south. 

Natasha beat him to forming any intelligent response. “So what took you so long?” she demanded, even as she scrolled through the pictures on the camera. “And why did you turn off your comms?”

“Um, gee guys, you’re welcome I guess. I did do all the ha-”

Natasha’s eyes snapped up at him. “If you say ‘hard work’, I am going to throw you from this moving vehicle, I swear to god,” she warned him. 

“Uh…” Clint hesitated, grinning innocently and shrugging. “Now, why would I say that? Clearly,” he said, nodding and looking as genuine as he could muster, “you guys had a pretty rough go of it for those last couple minutes.”

“Quite,” Natasha agreed, fully aware she was still in quite a state. “Now explain.”

Clint sighed, his upbeat demeanor slipping away for the first time since he’d jumped off the roof. (Bucky was fully aware of how that thought didn’t make any sense.) “Look,” he sighed, “I found the right box, I got the pictures, but I couldn’t get out the way I came in because there were guys in and out of that hallway. So I climbed up the shelves and I got out through the vents.  _ Not  _ easy,” he stressed. “Definitely wouldn’t have held my weight for more than a minute there, but I had limited options.”

“And why you went offline?” Bucky followed up, deadpan. He was growing increasingly frustrated- and he wasn’t alone in that- with how the man couldn’t seem to take anything seriously, even when their operation and his own damn safety hung in the balance, but it wasn’t the time to address that.

“It’s a really old building,” Clint said, shrugging like it couldn’t be helped. “Lots of concrete and metal beams in the roof, with a narrow pocket between designed for vents and pipes and shit and to catch rising hot air. Not exactly designed for good reception.”

Natasha looked like she was debating whether to hit him again. She looked back down at the camera though, visibly deciding to let it go with a steadying breath. “You’re sure you’re alright?” she asked, like she didn’t trust him the first time he’d answered that question.

“Yes, I swear I’m fine, Nat,” he said, leaning forward between the two front seats again now he was more sure he was safe from physical violence. “The question is, are you okay?” he asked, smiling gently at her as he rested his chin on the back of her seat. “I mean, even I heard all that from in there. You good?”

Bucky tore his eyes away, focusing back on the road. Suddenly he felt like he was intruding.

“I’m fine,” she reassured, brushing off his concern. “I’ll take your concern as a compliment.”

“Mhhmm,” Clint hummed in agreement, “damn straight. That was a hell of a job.”

“A mess of a job is what that was,” Bucky muttered, still refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead.

“Aw, don’t be like that now,” Clint complained, pouting. Bucky felt him pat his shoulder consolingly. “Everything turned out okay. Uh-” he looked to Natasha- “right?”

Despite how mad he wanted to be at him, and despite how, bad it seemed, in actuality it could have been a lot worse. 

No one saw Clint, or had any reason to suspect there had been a breakin. All anyone back there knew was really very little, through whatever context clues Natasha and Bucky had left them. It was a redirect really, a distraction, one of the oldest tricks in the book. But with a twist. 

A messy twist, no doubt. One that meant they couldn’t just go straight back to their hotel rooms, a healthy dose of paranoia requiring some extra caution and trail-covering. But an effective one. 

They got the job done.

Natasha sighed. “It’s fine,” she agreed reluctantly. She was quiet for a moment, rubbing at her temple like her head hurt before looking across at Bucky. “But Steve doesn’t need to know about this.”

Bucky snorted in laughter, the very thought preposterous. Clint just grimaced, a sound escaping the back of his throat that expressed something between trepidation and disgust. “What, you think that  _ I’d  _ be the one to tell him? I’ve had enough of his lectures for one lifetime. No thanks.”

“Just making sure we’re on the same page,” Natasha said in her defense. 

“Even if I were going to tell him, I’d have no idea how to describe this,” Bucky mused, shaking his head. “I mean, what even was that?”

Natasha smiled tiredly, not knowing either. But Clint laughed,  surprised and very pleased by whatever just occurred to him. “What do you mean, ‘what was that’?” he asked, delighted, and grinning smugly. “You guys do realize what we just did, right? Our first job together, and we made a new one.”

“That wasn’t new,” Natasha sighed, with a displeased look that said she countered for perhaps no other reason than she didn’t like how thrilled he was with how the night had turned out. “Just a new variation of the old.”

“Bullshit,” Clint declared, rolling his eyes at her. “If it were just a variation then how come we gave it its own name?” 

“What? It does not have its own name,” Natasha said, frowning at him.

“Oh,” Bucky realized, thinking he was catching on to where Clint was going with it. “Crap. It does,” he conceded.

“Ridiculous,” she said. “That what is it?”

Clint looked like he was fit to burst at the seams, grinning that lopsided smile that Bucky had a hard time staying angry with, no matter how he tried- no matter how Clint was ridiculously, frustratingly upbeat about the whole mess. 

“The Swedish Detour,” he said smugly, smiling even more brilliantly at how she groaned in pain, letting her head fall back against the seat.

“No, absolutely not-”

“Too late,” Clint said, adamant. “Besides, you should be proud, Nat. It was your idea.”

“It was not,” she said, sounding too tired to belabor the point.

“Well, it kind of was,” Bucky said, having to agree with Clint this time. The beaming smile Clint sent his way had nothing to do with it. “I just went along with it.”

“I never agreed to calling this stupid trip that,” she complained, but she rolled her eyes, crossing her arms like she was over it anyway.

“You’re outnumbered two to one, babe,” Clint informed her consolingly, but not managing to sound even slightly sympathetic. “The Swedish Detour: a Romanova, Barnes, and Barton special.”

“You know,” Bucky mused, shrugging, “all things considered, not a horrible name for a con.”

“No?” Clint asked, raising an eyebrow at that.

“No,” he agreed. “Not bad at all.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

They weren’t quite celebrating. It was too nerve-racking of a win by too narrow of a margin for that. What they were doing was getting some space, keeping below the radar, clearing their heads, and biding their time until they caught their flight back to Austria in the early morning. It was already early morning technically, so crashing for a handful of hours didn’t really seem worth it. They could sleep on the plane. 

Natasha had peeled off shortly after they’d gotten out of there. She’d been mostly quiet, saying something about getting cleaned up while waving any of their concerns off dismissively. It wasn’t surprising for her to want some time and space to herself after a job anyway, even if the call she got to her burner phone which she promptly sent straight to voicemail after glancing at the screen was a little suspicious. 

The only thing she’d been clear about before disappearing was to leave her alone or risk the consequences, and that she would grab everything from the hotel (which was very little, most of which they planned on dispersing in a couple dumpsters around the city on the way to the airport) and that they should meet her at the departure gate at least an hour before their scheduled takeoff.

How, then, he and Clint had ended up in a filthy dive bar at two in the morning, he had no idea. Partly he’d let Clint drag him along, partly he didn’t have anywhere else in mind to be. Clint had seemed to know exactly what he was looking for though.

It was a twenty-four hour deteriorating hole in the wall tucked away into the dense underbelly of an unsavoury part of the city, with a disreputable look which attracted an equally disreputable crowd. 

It had only taken Bucky a few minutes seated at the far end of the bar- the best seat in the house for keeping eyes on the exits- to pick up on the fact that everything was done in cash, no one asked about names, there was either a petty loan shark or gambling bookie running his office out of a cracked booth in the back, and there was a shotgun under the bar. The bar itself was staffed by a very competent looking woman in her fifties who everyone regarded with the type of quiet respect that suggested she’d earned it.

He leaned back against the bar, watching Clint with mild curiosity as he befriended a half dozen leather clad, heavily tattooed biker-types over a game of pool. The fact that he was losing horribly, and losing his money with it, probably helped him in that venture. 

“Aw, come on now, that’s just not fair,” Clint complained over the clatter of the billiard balls, shaking his head in dismay and wringing his hands around the cue stick he leaned. Faux hawk guy, who seemed to be the most competent player of the lot, sent the eight ball into a corner pocket, ending the game and Clint’s misery with it. 

That got a laugh from snake tattoo guy, who picked up the pile of crinkled cash from the edge of the table- the stakes from the past four games- and began counting it gleefully. It was low stakes, only about ten bucks per round in assorted euros, Swedish kronas, and American dollars. Just about anything went.

“Sorry guy,” faux hawk said, shrugging. “Maybe you play again, you win it back?” he suggested, grinning, his English a little choppy but like the others plenty passable.

Clint snorted, laughing around another mouthful as he tipped his bottle back, draining the last of it. “Fuck that,” he said, which got a bark of laughter. “You guys are bleeding me dry.”

“Hey, hey,” the guy with the patchy beard chided, thumping Clint on the shoulder hard enough to send him stumbling forward into the edge of the pool table, Clint being already a little off balance from the drinking. “That was not very Canadian of you,” he said, still grinning as he helped Clint right himself.

“Oh, oops,” Clint said, unconcerned. “Excusez mon français.”

Bucky choked on his drink trying not to laugh, setting the glass bottle down and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Natasha taught him nothing. 

When they’d asked earlier, sort of off-hand, Clint had offered that he was from Canada and dropped some line about Waterloo and a native drinking game that had meritted some laughs, and everyone moved on. Whether they believed it or not hadn’t seemed to matter. 

It didn’t take his new friends much cajoling to get him to commit to another game, with the next round on them. Bucky wasn’t thrilled about that. They needed to be at the airport in about four hours, and Clint was already on his way to more than a little buzzed. He’d probably try and pull him out of there after this game, leaving time to sober up.

“Fine, fine,” Clint relented. “But I mean, gimme a chance here,” he pleaded, swaying and bumping shoulders with faux hawk, who clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning broadly with amusement.

Either they took pity on him or they just wanted him to stick around and lose some more. “Okay, okay, you want to win your money back? All or nothing, huh?” he prompted, looking around the table to all his buddies, nodding and muttering their agreement.

“Ya know, you say that,” Clint drawled out, eyeing them critically and checking his hip against the table for balance, “but I don’ think this’s gonna end well for me.”

He was in though, fumbling through his well-worn wallet to fork up the cash, which the three other guys who were playing (all on the same team, which didn’t seem quite fair for Clint, who was on his inadequate lonesome) eagerly matched.

Flaming skull tattoo guy started the game, breaking the triangle with a sharp clatter and sending balls every which way. He took three of the solid colors off the board before backing himself into a corner, swearing disappointedly and handing his cue off to patchy beard. 

Bucky watched Clint circle the table, eyeing his options. He sighed, cocking his head to the side as he sized up an angle. “Way to leave me without many options here,” he muttered, bending over the table to line up a shot.

Bucky had a good view from his perch at the bar. But no, god no, he cringed at how corny that was the second he thought it. Because he wasn’t looking at the billiards, or the actually pretty alright shot Clint took. He was most definitely checking out his ass. Had been for the last two games, ever since the hockey game on tv was replaced with infomercials that got even more boring when he didn’t know the language.

It wasn’t like he was being obvious about it. He probably shouldn’t, he knew that… but still. It was worth appreciating. And hard not to.

And looking at him,  _ Christ _ , he- Bucky dropped the thought rather than see where it was going, investing his attention instead in the glass at the bottom of his bottle. He was well aware that he was interested, there was no pretending he wasn’t. He didn’t a worn out pair of close-fitting jeans or his own stupid train of thought to remind him of it. It was a bad idea though, so he wasn’t going there. End of story.

He took another swig, nursing the bottle close and glancing back up at the television. It had turned to a local news channel, but there was nothing interesting going on. That was a good thing, he reminded himself, particularly given the very real possibility that  _ they  _ could’ve been on it (or at least their aftermath), but it didn’t make it any less boring, or any less in a language that he couldn’t understand. So that left him with very little to do, and at the moment, it left him with very little energy to keep his eyes to himself. 

When he dropped his gaze from the television on the wall, sweeping it across the bar, Clint wasn’t there. That was probably because he was quite suddenly leaning against the bar next to him and grabbing a handful of stale pretzels. Bucky blinked, leaning back in his seat as he was closer than expected. He was, possibly, a little slow on the uptake. They should probably be leaving soon.

Clint turned around, leaning back against the wood on his elbows and facing the rest of the room like Bucky was, close enough to brush shoulders. “You know,” Clint said, happily popping a pretzel into his mouth, “usually the murder glare thing is pretty hot,” he blurted out, which caught Bucky off guard, but Clint carried right on like he didn’t even notice. “Or maybe that’s just a me thing- Nat tells me it's a me thing. She’s very concerned actually that I’m only attracted to people that could probably kill me. Like, there was this one time, there was this guy, an’…” he paused, frowning, “I think I’m getting off topic.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ll say,” he agreed. “How much have you had?” he asked, reaching out and plucking Clint’s beer glass from his non-pretzel filled hand, where he’d been fiddling with the edge of the sticker. He set it down on the bar on his other side, out of immediate reach.

Clint didn’t seem to register it. He frowned, thinking, before deciding. “Enough,” he shrugged, tossing another pretzel in his mouth and chewing contemplatively. “Back to what I think my point was, you know, it really works for you. But, maybe in smaller doses?” he suggested, smiling apologetically and leaning into Bucky’s shoulder. “Because the resting murder face thing probably doesn’t go over well with many people. Can’t be good for making friends.”

Bucky huffed a laugh at that, shaking his head. “Like your new friends over there?” he asked, nodding toward the pool table where the five guys were huddled around, looking closely at the lay of the table and taking their time deciding on what was apparently their collective next move. It was turning out to be a close game, surprisingly.

“Nah,” Clint said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Not my friends,” he corrected. “Not for very long.”

“What does that mean?” Bucky asked, genuinely confused at how he was making even less sense than usual.

Clint just grinned, unapologetically evasive. “Nothin’,” he said, “but speaking of, I should prob’ly get back to ‘em.”

“This your last game?” Bucky asked, “because we should really go soon.”

“Well if you put it that way, most definitely,” Clint said, and again, that smile didn’t bode well. 

“Clint,” Bucky warned, dropping his voice, “what-”

“Nothing,” Clint insisted, interrupting his question, which was highly suspicious in itself. “Just…” He glanced back at the five pretty imposing guys still gathered around the pool table, but who now looked to be done with their turn. “Enjoy the show,” Clint said, stepping away. He turned back and winked at Bucky pretty blatantly, still grinning madly when he sauntered off back toward the game.

Bucky felt his face go warm and he ducked his head away, even if Clint wasn’t looking. He probably meant the game. That’s what he probably meant. Definitely not- no.

Clint shoved the rest of his pretzels in his mouth and picked his cue stick back up, glancing over the balls strewn across the table. He didn’t spend much time on it.

“A’right gents,” he said, stepping up and moving to the corner of the table, “I’m told I’ve gotta be leaving soon, so let’s see if we can’t wrap this up.” He bent double over the table, hovering over the green felt and lining up a shot, and if he eased back and wiggled his ass just a little, well that probably had nothing to do with it.

His first shot was clean, precise, putting two of the billiards in adjacent pockets. His opponents frowned, at that, but Clint was still grinning confidently. He didn’t spend any time debating his next play, immediately walking to the other end of the table and without any hesitation sending the cue ball ricocheting off the opposite wall and scoring another.

Then it occurred to him, watching that, what exactly was happening. Because Bucky had played a game or two of pool before, and that was not an easy shot. It was all clean angles and just the right amount of force, nothing like the game he’d been playing up to then. And he made it look easy. Way too easy. And did it again. Consistently.

“Goddammit, Clint,” Bucky muttered to himself, now cautiously eyeing the guys surrounding Clint who were likely coming to the same realization that he was. 

This was probably not the best time, nor the best place, to be hustling anybody,  _ least of all  _ these five. 

Bucky had no idea how he managed to be friends with this idiot, much less how he managed to be attracted to him. Not even a great ass should’ve been able to make up for that amount of sheer stupidity.

There were very few balls left on the table, but it was clear that Clint was making quick work of them. The aforementioned guys who could very much take care of themselves, and who looked like they were not foreigners to a good bar fight if Bucky was being honest, were looking increasingly pissed and talking to each other in distinctly angry tones, not in English for the first time.

Bucky slid out of his chair, pushing more than enough cash across the bar to cover the tab, and made his way over along the wall closer to where Clint was busy being completely oblivious to the kind of situation he was putting himself in.

When he looked up from the table, he caught Bucky’s eye. “Oh, hey,” he glanced back at the table, pointing between two different pockets. “Do you think I should put two here or bankshot that one?” he asked, stepping to the side to get a better angle.

That of course was when he stepped right into faux hawk, who stood planted in his way, well muscled arms crossed over his broad chest and a stony expression on his face. 

Clint blinked a couple times, his brain playing catch up. “Oh, excuse-”

“You think we’re stupid?” faux hawk asked, taking a rather menacing step forward. He said something that didn’t sound too kind, then looked to snake tattoo and said something else, motioning to the stack of cash on the corner.

“Um, no?” Clint said, cocking his head to the side. It might’ve been his first smart move all night. Bucky sidled closer, edging around the table so it wasn’t between him and the fight-in-the-making. When snake tattoo scooped up the money on the table though, Clint frowned, pointing to it and opening his mouth before Bucky could cut him off. “Actually, I was just about t-”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a surprised yelp when faux hawk moved more quickly than Bucky expected him to, grabbing Clint by the collar with both hands and turning, pinning him against the wood paneling of the wall.

“You were what?” he asked, daring him to finish that sentence in typical threatening bully fashion.

“Nothing,” Bucky answered for him, because god forbid he open his mouth again. “Absolutely nothing.” 

He stepped forward, pushing between patchy beard and two of his other leather clad comrades none too gently to stand beside where Clint was looking more sheepish than anything. Because of course he couldn’t have the good sense to look even the slightest bit worried that his personal safety and wellbeing were on the line. 

“You’re a crazy fucking idiot, you know that?” Bucky said, glaring at Clint. He glanced back to faux hawk, who was looking at him like he didn’t quite know what to make of him, but the look was far from friendly. 

“Who the fuck-”

Clint cleared his throat, smiling apologetically. “He’s talking about me, sweetheart,” he clarified, “not you.”

“Right,” Bucky agreed. “And any other day I’d be more inclined to let him suffer for it, but unfortunately, I think I distinctly recall being put in charge of him for at least the next four hours,” Bucky said. “So I’m gonna need him back.”

Unfortunately, yet somewhat predictably, that did not go over well.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bucky shoved Clint out the back door, sending him stumbling against the adjacent brick wall of the alley where he caught himself. He was quick to follow, the door slamming behind him, grabbing Clint by the elbow and hauling him quickly down the alley, toward the better lit and most importantly more public street.

“God,” Bucky swore, “I cannot  _ believe you _ -”

“Holy hell,” Clint said, leaning into him a little more than was strictly necessary to stay upright and grinning madly, though a little off-kilter. “That was fun. Wasn’t that fun? That was grea-”

Bucky pulled him out of the alley, down the sidewalk away from the bar’s front door. He heard it open behind them, and pushed Clint to go faster. “ _ No _ ,” he hissed, glancing back and swearing at seeing the five people he did not want to see pouring out the door. “It was  _ not  _ fun. That was  _ not  _ great. Mostly because those guys want to kill you, and me by extension, and that barkeep was about two seconds from shooting someone. And I wouldn’t bet money on that someone  _ not  _ being you.”

“Aw,” Clint complained, pouting, “don’t be like that, Buck.”

“Like what?” he asked, shoving Clint roughly down the next narrow alley and out of sight, following quickly after. “Fucking sane?” 

Clint kept moving on his own, but not fast enough for Bucky’s liking. He put a hand behind his shoulder blade, directing him faster around the dumpster half blacking the way and further into the dark. It was narrow and damp with the recent rain, the two residential buildings on either side towering above and throwing it into darkness, with just a haze of the yellow streetlight making it through. 

When evading pissed off bikers, it’d get the job done.

“No,” Clint corrected, “so goddamn serious all the time. Can’t you just, I dunno, live a little? Don’t tell me you’ve never started a bar fight, hmm?” He elbowed Bucky in the side expectantly.

“Shut the fuck up, Clint,” he growled, listening closely. He heard yelling behind them, out on the street. 

“Wow, that’s rude,” Clint remarked, frustration creeping up at the edge of his tone.

“Seriously, what is wrong with you?” Bucky asked, no idea what to make of how he was behaving.

“I’m told it’s a cry for help, but it might just be for attention,” he quipped, sarcastic.

Glancing behind them and cursing again, Bucky grabbed Clint’s arm and pulled him quickly to the right side of the alley, into a narrow walkway connecting it to the next that was barely a meter wide, feeling gravel and the rare clump of weeds beneath their feet.

“Ow,” Clint complained, pushing at him, “that hurts actu-”

Bucky shoved him against the brick wall in the narrow crevice between the buildings, physically clamping a hand over his mouth to shut him up as he heard the loud, angry talking echo closer. Clint made a sound of protest, beginning to struggle and try to push him away, but Bucky doubled his efforts.

He pushed forward, pressing the length of his body against Clint’s to keep his arms pinned and hold him in place, their faces side by side. Clint stilled, going rigid. “I need you,” Bucky said, so low almost he couldn’t even hear it over the pounding of his own heartbeat, “to be quiet. Please.” He didn’t get a response, the only noise their breathing between them. “Okay?”

After just long enough that Bucky didn’t think he’d get anything out of him, Clint gave his best equivalent of a nod. Slowly, Bucky pulled his hand away and stepped back, not that there was much room to do so. In the low light, he saw Clint wipe the back of his hand over his mouth and turn his head to stare down the end of their walkway, silent.

Bucky pushed his shoulder blades against the brick of his side of the walkway. He took a slow deep breath, holding it for a moment and willing his pulse to slow down as he exhaled. They waited.

A solid few minutes passed before they were certain that Clint’s new friends had decided it wasn’t worth it and moved on.

Taking another breath, Bucky tried to steady himself before speaking. “Okay,” he said, “I think we’re good.” Clint didn’t move or speak, his expression having gone blank. “Hey,” Bucky said more gently than before, pausing, but he didn’t get any indication that Clint even heard him.  “I’m sorry about that, okay? You alright?”

Clint turned to look at him, taking a deep breath and opening his mouth to say something but thinking better of it. He shook his head, jaw tight. Clint pushed away from the wall, starting toward the mouth of the alley.

“Wait,” Bucky called after him before he got anywhere, “hold up.” He reached out to grab his wrist, but before he even got close Clint spun sharply on him.

“What?” he asked, his tone oddly dull and indecipherable. “What is it? What do you want?” He threw his hands up like he didn’t know, waiting for an answer. “It’s like you’re pissed at me one minute and then the next minute-” he laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t even know. Forget it.” He slumped back against the wall, his head bowed, scrubbing both hands through his hair.

It left Bucky’s head spinning a little bit. “Hey,” he said, coming out softer than he’d intended. He was mostly confused. “Woah. Let’s just back up a couple steps.” He stepped forward, his hands going automatically to either side of Clint’s shoulders but he flinched away again, so Bucky froze, dropping his hands.

“Don’t,” Clint warned him, but he sounded more hurting than angry. He stepped away, sliding against the wall to put distance between them. “Just don’t.” His voice came across strangled, quiet and dropping off at the end. “Because, this? That right there? That’s the next minute. One minute you pissed with me and the next it’s  _ that _ .” He was talking too quickly for Bucky get get a word in edgewise. “Or, it’s ignoring me completely, or it’s acting like everything totally fine when it’s pretty obvious it isn’t.” He stared at Bucky, wide eyed, and it hit Bucky hard like a punch to the gut just how miserable he looked after he quit bothering trying to hide it.

“I-” he stopped, no idea what to say. “I don’t know what- What do you want me to do, Clint? I’m sorry I-”

He threw his head back, laughing dryly before looking him in the eye again, his expression pained. “I want you make up your  _ goddamn mind _ ,” he said, like it was so, so obvious. “Either hate me or- or don’t, but I don’t want to exist in this gray space. I feel like I’m already on eggshells around everyone else,” he said, more quietly, the initial burst of energy gone. “I really don’t- I don’t want that around you.” He dropped off at the end, sullen. He looked down and away, crossing his arms in front of his chest, distancing himself.

“Clint,” he said, serious. “Hey, look at me.” 

Clint didn’t move or look up, but when Bucky stepped forward again, he didn’t shy away this time. He rested one hand on his upper arm, the other going to cradle the side of his neck, his thumb along his jaw, gently lifting his chin. Clint’s eyes flitted away to some point in space behind him for a moment, but slowly he came back, meeting Bucky’s eyes cautiously.

It left a pit in his stomach, either guilt or something like it.

“I definitely don’t hate you,” Bucky said, sweeping his thumb across his cheek. “I absolutely suck at words and I am so, unbelievably sorry you felt that way, but I definitely do not hate you.” He paused, letting it sink in. “Okay?” 

Clint narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously, like he was trying to see through it. There was nothing to see through. “M’kay,” he mumbled, trying to pull away, but Bucky made a sound of protest, shaking his head.

He shifted closer, barely a few inches between them. Clint dropped his arms, one of his hands settling at Bucky’s elbow. “Look. I may be wrong, but I’m pretty sure the only times I remember being actually angry with you is when you’ve done something absolutely batshit crazy and put yourself in trouble. And honestly, I don’t think it’s fair to blame me for that,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in a sympathetic smile.

Clint snorted weakly in laughter, a small self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “I can’t promise I won’t do that again…”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Well yeah, I figured it’s kinda par for the course by now,” he joked, and Clint flashed a weak smile at that. “Guess I’ll just have to be there to haul your ass out of whatever fire you start.”

“Bar fight,” he corrected. “Not a fire. One’s arguable worse but I’m not sure which.”

“The arson, probably,” Bucky said, smirking. “Just, try not to though? You know, when possible.” Clint sighed, making a show of weighing up the pros and cons, at which Bucky poked his ribs none too gently “Okay smartass, I mean it though. The biggest risk to you is yourself. You’re a menace.”

Clint shrugged meekly, avoiding meeting his eyes and ducking his head away from Bucky’s hand, resting his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky slid his hand around to rest at the back of Clint’s neck, the other snaking around his waist to pull him closer into a hug. It felt like the right thing to do. After a moment he felt Clint’s arms drift around him, clasping his own wrist loosely behind Bucky’s back and sagging into his hold.

Bucky chuckled at that, shifting his weight forward to counterbalance. “Woah, okay, you good?”

“Mhhmm,” Clint hummed in the affirmative, muffled into Bucky’s shoulder. 

He lifted his head back up, trying to step back partly from Bucky’s hold, but there wasn’t all that much room in their narrow three feet of space and Bucky wasn’t quite ready to let go, so they ended up in much the same place as they were, except with the wall to Clint’s back again, and Bucky pressed firmly against the front of him. And he didn’t pull away.

Because fuck it, it was nice. And it didn’t seem like avoiding the matter had made it go away or had worked out all that great so far. Plus, he was getting all the right signals- that much was obvious. And goddammit, he wanted to. Because he had a warm and gorgeous and pleasantly buzzed Clint Barton in his arms and, to hell with it, they could both blame it on the drinks in the morning.

If there were consequences, that seemed like Tomorrow-Bucky’s problem.

“You sure you’re okay?” Bucky asked, pausing just a fraction before adding, “With this?” He stayed right where he was, too lazy and comfortable wrapped up in the body heat Clint was throwing off to step back. And Clint wasn’t exactly complaining; he just shrugged a shoulder, smirking with a renewed glint in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” he said. “You sure you don’t hate me?” he countered. “I think I’d forgive you if you did.”

Bucky hummed with laughter, wetting his lips. He watched with interest as Clint’s eyes flicked down to follow it. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” he murmured, his breath coasting along Clint’s neck. Clint shivered, nothing to do with the cold. “Pretty sure I like you.”

“Aw, you like me?” Clint said, tone mocking even as he grinned brightly, looking too genuinely pleased to quite call it smug. “That’s cute.”

Bucky rocked back on his heels to look Clint in the eye, raising an eyebrow at that and wondering if looking indignant was worth his time or energy. “Seriously?” he asked, deadpan.

Clint jerked his chin up in an approximation of a confident nod. He tapped a finger to his temple, smiling knowingly before sliding that hand down Bucky’s side almost casually, hooking two fingers in his belt and tugging him almost imperceptibly, temptingly closer. “Reverse psychology.”

“You know, I don’t think it works like that,” Bucky informed him, but he couldn’t help but grin at him, biting his bottom lip to smother it. “There’s probably easier ways.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow like he was interested. “Like what? Better be good, ‘cause I’m told I’m pretty oblivious.”

He shifted forward in answer, sliding his knee between Clint’s as he leaned in. He brought his mouth closer to Clint’s ear, light stubble ghosting over the line of Clint’s jaw. “You need proof?” he asked, his voice coming out a low purr. 

Clint breathed in sharply, hissing faintly through his teeth as his hands drifted to Bucky’s hips, resting there warmly. “I dunno,” he said, a little breathless. “Maybe.”

“Maybe…” Bucky repeated, like that wasn’t quite enough. His eyes drifted down the column of Clint’s throat, standing out soft and pale in the dark. He tilted his head down to drag his mouth across Clint’s fluttering pulse just below his jawline, pausing and murmuring against his skin, “How ‘bout a yes?” His tongue darted out, tasting the skin there, scraping his teeth over the sensitive spot until he dragged a soft aborted moan from the man, flushed and shivering.

“Yea- yes, please,” he stumbled over the words, and then Bucky was closing the last centimeters of breath between them as his lips brushed over Clint’s before any more words could tumble off of them. 

It was barely more than a chaste press of his mouth against his, cautious at first, until Clint caught up and pressed forward, bringing a hand up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. Bucky made a quiet involuntary sound as Clint tugged gently, his own fingers twisting in the material of the front of Clint’s sweatshirt as he retaliated with a slide of his tongue along Clint’s bottom lip. Clint parted his lips with a soft gasp, willingly tilting his head back further as Bucky deepened the kiss.

He didn’t hesitate to take full advantage of the opening, pressing more firmly, his tongue dipping in and brushing against Clint’s teasingly before he pulled back, nipping at Clint’s lip and dragging an almost pained whine out of him, at the same time too much and not nearly enough. 

“This is such a horrible idea,” Bucky mumbled as he tilted his head to kiss Clint again, crashing their mouths together. Clint’s hum of agreement was cut short by Bucky’s tongue pushing into his mouth again, kissing deeper and faster this time as Clint pressed forward against the length of Bucky’s body, circling the arm that wasn’t around his neck around Bucky’s waist and pulling him closer, rocking his hips forward enticingly.

Bucky shuddered through a breath, feeling Clint smirk against his mouth. He drew Clint’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting punishingly and causing a surprised note to escape the back of Clint’s throat as his fingers twisted sharply into his hair in response.

Clint pulled back for breath, panting against Bucky’s neck, nipping at the skin there. “Terrible idea,” he gasped in agreement between flashes of teeth and tongue, Bucky smothering his words with his mouth. “Breaks- ngh-” he bit back a small groan as Bucky’s right hand slid down his ass to the back of his thigh, fingers digging in possessively and jerking him forward against Bucky’s leg, still slotted between Clint’s own. “Breaks so many rules.”

It did. Definitely. He had a difficult time remembering why that mattered though.

There was no way of knowing how long it dragged on, quick and breathless and settling deep in the pit of his stomach. But he  _ wanted  _ it, wanted Clint right where he had him, and with Clint struggling to hold back a strangled moan as Bucky sucked hard at the soft skin of his throat with teeth and tongue in equal measure- hard enough to leave marks he was far too pleased with- it was hard to convince himself that the feeling wasn’t mutual.

It felt like the time he’d spent convincing himself otherwise was years ago, instead of just days.

Eventually though Bucky slowed the kiss down, a small, soft sound escaping from his throat as he eased back just enough so they weren’t pressed flush together. They couldn’t keep at it like that- not there or then or when neither of them were quite sober and had places to be, planes to catch. Rational thinking had not yet failed him completely.

Clint made a displeased noise in complaint at the loss of contact. He tried to chase after it, pushing forward to follow him, but Bucky’s right hand returned to Clint’s hip, holding him firmly in place at a few inches distance. With his left he gently cupped the side of Clint’s jaw as he ended the lingering kiss, resting their foreheads together for a brief moment as their ragged breaths mingled between them. Then, finally, he straightened up, taking a deep breath. With a last brush of lips he pulled away altogether, nudging Clint’s nose with his own as he went.

Clint resigned himself to the loss, slumping back against the hard bricks with a breathless sigh somewhere between remorseful and deeply satisfied. His hand untangled from Bucky’s hair as he pulled away, sliding down to the front of his chest, pushing past his unzipped hoodie and resting warmly against the fabric of his shirt. 

Watching Bucky with half hooded eyes, his pupils blown wide, Clint tilted his head back against the wall as a lazy grin settled across his lips, hair thoroughly disheveled and skin warm and flushed all the way down to the collar. Clint swiped the tip of his tongue across his lips, reddened and wet and far too tempting, the corner of his mouth hooking into a pleased smirk as he watched Bucky’s eyes dart down to follow it. 

“I don’t care,” Bucky said, low and rough and not nearly as collected as he was trying for, but he didn’t care about that either. His hand dropped down to the side of Clint’s neck, his thumb brushing over the dark mark blooming against Clint’s skin he’d left there. “Don’t care if it’s a bad idea or breaks the rules,” he panted, watching Clint’s expression shift almost immeasurably, darker and more intense but shielding something apprehensive, verging on vulnerable. “Not if you don’t.”

And Clint laughed, out of breath and wrecked, his eyes falling closed as he smiled brilliantly, the shadows and the faint distant glow of the streetlights playing over his face. It tugged at something deep in Bucky’s chest, too real and too painful in the best possible way. Like it anchored him in place, exactly where he wanted to be.

Clint darted forward, hand clenching in the material of Bucky’s shirt and pulling him closer as he crashed their mouths together. It was off center and impatient and messy, and broken with breathless airy laughter as Clint couldn’t stop grinning against his lips, but he wouldn’t have him any other way.

“When have I ever,” he panted, like the very thought was ridiculous, “cared about either of those things? You must not know me very well.”

“No, I think I do,” Bucky said, wrapping his arms around Clint and drawing him close into a soft kiss, the one that probably hit him the hardest how very real it was. And he knew Clint’s trend toward self-deprecating humor that wasn’t really humor at all beneath the surface, knew how he would second guess himself later, second guess everything. But he didn’t want any of that, not here. “An’ I’m not going anywhere.”


	9. Stage 5: making friends like these

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back, I'm posting, I'm going to be trying to work on an as predictable schedule as before (every two weeks or so?). Sorry for the unexpected hiatus, it was necessary. So, have some good good winterhawk stuff, feat. protective af Nat, a truly impressive lack of self confidence from Clint :( , a little bit ride-or-die Bucky, and a failure to decide on POV from me.
> 
> Side note, I would kind of like to know how many people are actually still, like, interested? In this? So, just like raise your hands in the comments? Thanks v much. <3

Clint hummed in vague agreement when Natasha paused. He didn’t look up from where he was leaning on his forearms over the unpolished wood of the thoroughly dented and roughed up kitchen table, an uncapped sharpie marker in one hand and a ruler in the other. 

His temporary apartment in Vienna had a very unfinished vibe to it, all exposed brick and unfinished wood and open rafters across tall ceilings. It was drafty as hell too, even if the windows were nailed shut, which was, now that he was thinking about it, something he was going to have to get around to undoing.

“Clint?”

Why someone would nail a perfectly good window shut in the first place he couldn’t wrap his head around. The table just complimented the look of the place, apparently. That’s what Natasha said. She knew about these things, apparently. She said it was “tasteful”, and that he “just didn’t appreciate it”. Apparently. But Clint just figured it was because he wasn’t allowed to have nice things. 

Like apartments where windows were functional means of exit and entry. Quite frankly that was just a safety regulation in his book, a far cry from finery.

“Clint.” He registered Natasha’s voice, talking for a while now. 

He glanced back at the picture pulled up on the laptop of the blueprints he’d sneaked a peak at back in Sweden, making sure the degrees weren’t off. “Uh-huh, yeah?”

Still, not like anyone could really tell how rough of a shape the table was in when it was strewn with massive pieces of some sort of industrial paper that Steve had somehow produced and pencils and rulers and yardsticks and those plastic angle measurement thingies with the curve and sharpies he kept losing the caps to.

The task reminded him primarily of two things. The first thing he’d been preoccupied with all day trying not to think about it because he didn’t know  _ how  _ to think about it, much less what to infer or take away from it. The second was a random and relatively unimportant memory that weirdly crept up in his head, him getting into a shouting match with his ninth grade geometry teacher about how he would never need to use that stuff in real life. Huh. Well, Mr. Geoffreys may have been right, but Clint doubted he was ever imaginative enough to consider using all that crap for such generally frowned upon purposes. But all of that was just a distraction from how goddamned impossible this building looked to crack. He’d never seen anything like it.

Oh shit, Natasha was talking again.

“-so in conclusion,” Natasha continued, quite possibly rolling her eyes in his periphery and wandering back toward him from across the living room- not much living to be done in it, given it consisted of kind of greyish hardwood floors and a couch that had seen better days but was comfy as hell and some empty bookshelves built into the wall. “I’m considering joining this cannibalist cult that lives in the middle of a volcano and time-travels through an antique wardrobe. I hear they offer dental. Thoughts?”

“Uh- wait,” Clint paused, mid-passive nod of agreement at whatever she was saying, having not really been listening at first, but  _ something  _ about that last sentence pulled him back out of his head into the moment. He set the protractor-  _ that  _ was what it was called, a protractor- down slowly, suddenly very aware of the scrutinizing gaze he was under. 

He dragged his eyes up from the sea of sharp lines and angles and camera fields of view to watch her watching him, hands on her hips and a displeased purse to her lips. “Uh, I see what you did there,” he said, and offered her a sheepish smile which would have been apologetic if he weren’t genuinely afraid of retribution. He didn’t think he managed quite charming either.

“You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said this entire time,” she said, deadpan, too disappointed to be an accusation. It wasn’t a question.

“Uh, well…” Yeah, nope. He almost had something smart to say. Almost. “I- uh, sorry?”

“Do you even have your ears in?” she asked, her hands moving to sign the words at the same time, and her expression still projecting that she was too bored of it- that it was just too  _ typical _ \- for her to be mad about it.

“Wha- yeah,” Clint said, just a little defensive, even as he was automatically lifting a hand to check. He was. “Yeah,” he repeated, more sure. “I’m listening.”

“Clearly not.” She walked over to the table, hooked her ankle around the leg of a stool and pulled it out from beneath the edge to sit. 

Clint sighed, avoiding her all-too-knowing look by searching for the elusive marker cap. He sifted through the papers, carefully picking up his now empty coffee mug (a state it should never be in) and flicking through the small-scale rough copies and the not-quite-scaled-right attempts and the mess-ups underneath.

Natasha opened her hand palm up over the table to reveal his quarry, smirking at the look of annoyance he shot her as he snatched it out of her hand.

“Is there a reason you’re here?” Clint sighed, trying not to come across as rude or anything, but okay, his tone was a little rude, but in his defense Natasha was being really annoying. “I’m working.”

“What, is it so bad that I want to hang out with my good buddy?” she asked, a sharp smile unwinding at the corner of her mouth, and she was clearly toying with him now. She was getting at something, he knew it. Building up to an ambush. He’d known it since the second she’d let herself in. A cat playing with a mouse trapped in a corner, and he knew enough to know he wasn’t the cat in this runaway metaphor.

“Those sound more like my words that yours,” Clint said flatly, unamused.

“They are,” Natasha chimed, smiling pleasantly as she leaned over the table on her elbows to examine his work. 

Recreating blueprints wasn’t all that impressive, but he was pretty happy with it all so far. Steve has trusted him to do it though, and they needed them by tonight, so he was going to get them done. Still, if he had to either go up against Natasha’s scary face or Steve’s disappointed face, he wasn’t sure which he would pick. They were both pretty bad. 

“See how annoying you are?” Natasha pointed out.

“Yes, I do, congratulations you’ve made a point,” he said, turning away from her, coffee mug in hand, to start what was either his fourth or fourteenth pot of the day. Checking his hip against the drawers upon which the too-high countertop and the one lonely kitchen appliance he’d used- the coffeemaker- sat, he tried so, so hard to pretend like her eyeballs weren’t shooting lasers at him right between his shoulder blades. 

It didn’t work too well.

“I think this stairwell is off scale,” she said oh so helpfully, presumably indicating to one spot or another on the paper, but he didn’t bother turning to look. “And this camera angle should cover at least a quarter more of the room, from where you’ve got it.”

“You do know it’s not finished, right?” Clint said, watching the coffee pot fill too slowly, too tired for whatever this game was. “Now I get that it’s a pretty complicated system,” he drawled out, sarcastic, “but if it’s in pencil, it’s just a rough placeholder, and if it’s in permanent marker- get this- that part’s finished.”

Natasha hummed in acknowledgement, and Clint could hear her grinning around it, even if he didn’t look. “Ah, okay,” she said. “Here I just thought you were-” she paused, either to think of the right word or for the drama, probably the latter- “distracted.”

Something about the way she said it,  _ distracted _ , had him tensing, bracing for it. Ah, there it was. Her real reason for bothering him. The ambush. Is it an ambush if he knew it was coming?

“Don’t know what you mean,” Clint sighed, putting conscious effort into not changing the pressure of his grip in the edge of the marble countertop.

“No?” Suddenly she was standing behind him,  _ right  _ behind him, and he almost managed to not flinch. Almost. Damn it. She slid in beside him against he counter, a smug expression that was somewhere between deep-seated satisfaction and joy in his discomfort plain as day on her face.

He felt like he was about to squirm out of his skin under her gaze, but he refused to budge. That would be conceding victory. Besides, the coffee was right there, in arm’s reach. No point abandoning it now. “Nope, no idea.”

She leaned in even closer, then too quick for him to dodge away she lifted a hand to graze a finger up the side of his neck teasingly, which he knew full well had been his scarlet letter not too long ago, flicking the underside of his jaw as he flinched and reared back in affront, scowling darkly at her. “Not even a little?” she asked, sweet as poison.

“Screw off,” he muttered, turning away from her even if it meant abandoning the coffee, and self-consciously tugging at the collar of his t-shirt, even if there was nothing to cover. it had faded away back to unnoticeable nothing days ago.

They had gotten… a little carried away, Bucky and him. Unresponsible, really. And a little tipsy and a little high on endorphins and adrenaline from a finished job and a close call,  _ if  _ he was trying to justify it in his head that is,  like he had been for the past four days. But Clint doubted that it would’ve taken as much as a mark for Natasha to catch on. She probably knew before that. 

To her credit though, this was the first time she so much as hinted at it.

“Aw, Clint,” she called after him, even as he retreated around the other side of the table to glare at the penciled in lines he had yet to double check, leaning on his palms planted on the edge of the table over the papers, shoulders hunched just about as far as they would go. “I’m not making fun of you,” she reminded him. “I encouraged this, after all.”

He didn’t say anything to that, eyes locked on the smudged graphite and jaw locked shut.

“Clint, honey,” she said, sympathetic this time, if a little concerned. “What’s the matter?” She followed him around the table, coming up behind him and snaking her arms around his midriff, hugging him from behind and resting her chin on his shoulder. He tried to shrug her off, rather petulantly, but she didn’t budge. “Clint,” she said, sing-song like, a little edge of a playful warning there, “say something. Do I have to beat him up for you?”

“What? No,” he was quick to correct. “No it’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?” she asked. “I don’t need details- in fact, don’t give me details. But I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s happened and why you’re in a mood.”

“Not in a mood,” Clint grumbled, most definitely in a mood.

She sighed audibly, probably rolling her eyes again at his pathetic ass, and maybe hugging him a little tighter. 

“Look,” Clint said, “it’s not like-” he stopped, starting over. “Before- you know? When I- at your place back in the States, when I was talking about it and you were fine with it-”

“And I’m still fine with it,” Natasha said easily, shrugging a little, just to make sure he knew how fine with it she was, as if predicting that might be the problem. It wasn’t, not by a long shot.

“I know that, that’s not-” He breathed out slowly, focusing on pushing all the air out, shoulders falling in a slump. “Before, I only meant it as a joke, you know? Like, never gonna happen.” He twisted out of her arms, turning around to look at her, for, agreement or understanding or support or something. 

All he got was a question written on her face with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. “Why not?”

“Why not what?”

“Why not happen?” she clarified.

Clint laughed dryly, dropping onto a stool. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” Natasha insisted. “I mean, he’s pretty hot,” she began dismissively, joking, hands miming weighing scales, “and you’re pretty hot-” she raised an eyebrow, shrugging.

“Tasha,” he groaned, wiping both hands over his face. “It’s not that eas-”

“Don’t you start now,” she interrupted, no longer dismissive as she pointed a condemning finger at him. “Take the compliment. I know you can do it. I know it’s hard, but I know you can do it.”

“That’s not what I was taking issue with, but okay.”

“So beyond the obvious,” she continued, sitting on the stool next to his, “the obvious being your self-deprecating, self-sabotaging trainwreck of a confidence-less, very,  _ very _ , miserably sad existence-”

“Wow, you’re really laying it on there. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Besides that, I’ll ask again, why not?” 

Clint blinked blankly at her. There were probably words, somewhere, but they seemed too far away, and too hard to get to.

She tapped her fingers against the table expectantly. “Don’t tell me you’ve still got it in your head that that man is completely straight because I thought that if  _ I  _ hadn’t convinced you otherwise then you got a resounding answer to that one back in Sweden.”

“What?” Clint blurted out, uncomfortable and defensive. “No…”

“And, newsflash, I know you’ve never been attracted to a woman in your life, but such a thing as bisexuality exists,” she said, her tone going for painfully obvious and maybe a little patronizing. It was working.

“I- I know that,” Clint grumbled bitterly, sliding off his seat and pacing across the kitchen before realizing he had nowhere to really go to avoid the uncomfortable conversation he found himself in and turning back, arms crossed. “Quit talking to me like I’m a child, please and thank you.”

“Then start acting like an adult,” Natasha countered readily, folding her arms neatly on the table in front of her. “Now give me a real reason why not.”

“Because-” he said, still pacing, every fiber of him rejecting this conversation. He wanted to go back to bed. Start over again tomorrow. “Because the- timing and shit. Now’s not a good time.”

“Bullshit.”

“Because with this job-”

“Bull-”

“-we work together and that’s gonna mess it up for everyone.”

“-shit.” Natasha made sure to enunciate and declare both syllables carefully, emphatically even, to make sure he knew just what she thought about that. “Excuses, excuses. Grow up. Or else give me a real reason why not.”

“You  _ know  _ why not,” Clint finally pleaded with her, hopping up on the countertop, every bit of him feeling more pained than the last. “I’m not-” he stopped himself, throat too dry, too constricted with creeping feelings he didn’t want to be having. “Everything sucks and I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

Natasha was quiet for a long moment, silently weighing him up. And, when she finally did say something, it hit all the harder because of it. 

Ambush. 

He didn’t see it coming.

“Because you think you’re still an emotionally crippled terrorist after Loki blew up that consulate with your inadvertent and unknowing help? Or is it because you just don’t think you’re worth it?” she asked, deadpan, and angry, more so than he realized before. That didn’t make it any less of a blow to the gut. 

If he paled a little at that as he went rigid, it might’ve explained the subtle pang of regret that flashed across her face. And that was a rare sight to behold. Her eyes soften as she stood up from her seat and made as if to move across the kitchen to him, but he flinched away hard from the movement, feeling utterly unprepared for that, and she stopped.

“Wow,” he managed to croak, feeling under the microscope, “you must’ve been sitting on that one for a while.” His head was spinning. It took him a hot second to realize it was probably because he was holding his breath.

“Clint, you know that you’re the only one who holds you responsible for that,” she said, choosing her words carefully. 

“I think the government of Nigeria and the thirteen people who would be alive right now if not for me would say otherwise.”

Natasha jumped up to her feet, taking a deep breath before continuing. He didn’t know why she was so angry. He would be, should’ve been, wanted to be angry, but when he reached for it, it was mostly just numb. That was arguably worse. 

“There’s a reason that _he_ is rotting in a maximum security federal prison somewhere nobody’s heard of an ocean away and _you_ aren’t.”

“Because I didn’t get caught?” Clint asked, finding an interesting swirl in the grain of the wood table and keeping his eyes there. “Because I ran?”

“So did he,” she snapped. “Lot of good it did him. Because you  _ didn’t do anything _ , is the answer I was going for. Because you were only a pawn there. Because it wasn’t your choice, you didn’t even know it was happening until it was done,” Natasha said. “And because you were only-” she paused to find the word, frustration making it difficult- “ _ tangentially  _ involved, no one was  _ looking  _ for you,” Natasha corrected, her words sharp even if they were coming from a place of truly caring.  

Clint took a stilted breath, almost choking on it. “That doesn’t make me any less responsi-”

Natasha swore loudly, bitterly in Russian. “ _ God  _ you’re infuriating,” she hissed, gritting her teeth. 

“I was the one who put the-”

“So fucking what? What you did, if Loki hadn’t changed the plan without  _ telling  _ anyone, wouldn’t have killed any-” By this point, he was looking for the exits, apparently not too subtly. “Oh no you don’t,” Natasha warned him, stopping herself mid-rant to intercept him, moving around the table as she watched his eyes dart to the door. “Stop running away. It’s your least attractive quality.”

“Fucking watch me,” he said as he went to push past her. What he wasn’t expecting was for her to body check him, looking more than a little willing to go to blows over this. It struck him how genuinely angry she was, which didn’t seem fair. He could only wish he could feel that angry about it, instead of feeling only whatever the dark choking mess settled squarely in his chest was. 

She was either a really good or a really shitty friend. He wasn’t sure which this qualified as. 

Regardless, to be quite frank, no matter how pissed off he was in the moment he wouldn’t put money down on him winning that fight, so he ground to a halt, glaring cooly at her. “Move.”

“Give me a reason why,” she repeated again, and he got the feeling she would never let this go.

“To move?” he wanted to laugh. He already knew what she meant. “Because I asked so nicely?”

“A reason you can’t be happy,” she redirected, her tone still even as ever, refusing to rise to any of his bait. “With him, with anyone, fuck, I don’t care. Given me a reason why and I’ll move.”

“Goddamnit, Natasha,” he swore, “I’m not fucking doing this with you right now.”

“Right now? What, not the right time?” she asked, sincere, until she was brutally blunt. “Well, it’s been a year. So it doesn’t seem like there’s ever going to  _ be _ , a  _ right time _ .”

“I’m not-”

“Give me a reason,” she told him, relentless.

“Nat-”

“Give me-”

“Natasha! Enough,  _ please _ .” To no effect.

“Give me a reason.”

He swallowed dryly, the words dry and listless. “Please stop,” he pleaded with her, the anger draining out of him, replaced with a numb void that left him wanting to sit down on the kitchen floor in the corner and not get up for a very long time. He stepped back, back until he was stopped by the countertop, and there was nowhere left to go.

“I will when you give me a reason.”

There was a long, excruciating silence between them, his expression one already admitting to defeat even as he worleslly pleaded with her to let it go.

“Because he doesn’t fucking  _ know _ .” 

He wanted to yell, but it came out too hoarse, in too strangled of a whisper, a quiet sort of way as his voice stopped cooperating. It left him all twisted up inside, the sort where he couldn’t properly take a breath, breathe, let it out, breathe in again. Instead he was frozen, rooted in place no matter how much he wanted to leave. 

He didn’t look up at her from where his eyes were fixed on the stupid greyish wood of the floor. He refused to do it. That didn’t stop her from walking right up to him and wrapping her arms around him, tight, the sort of prolonged full-body contact she claimed to hate. He would’ve stumbled back if he weren’t already against the cabinets, so instead he sank forward into her, resigned. And tired. So very tired.

She was quiet for a moment, but when she did speak again, she was a little- just maybe- contrite.

“I didn’t know that,” she said softly into his shoulder. “I thought- I’m sorry if I was callous.” She took a deep breath. “But,” she continued, picking her words carefully, “if you told him-” He tensed, and she stopped for a second, tugging him closer. “If you told him,” she said, forceful even in how she handled him with velvet gloves, “it wouldn’t change anything. Except maybe your ridiculous idea that everyone secretly loathes you behind your back. Which is immensely stupid,” she added, “if I haven’t said so already.”

He sagged into her hold, kind of still wishing that sinking to the floor was an option, but she wouldn’t budge. “You’re the fuckin’ worst,” he muttered, his chin on her shoulder.

“You hate that I’m right. Which is weird, really, because my being right has saved your ass more times than I can count,” Natasha said, brushing him off.

Clint snorted indignantly. “Sure. Whatever.”

Natasha sighed. “And while we’re at it, don’t think for one moment that I won’t kick his ass if-”

There was a loud knock at the door, three raps with something urgent to them that had Clint jerking upright as he looked for the source. “Uh-” he looked to Natasha for answers as she pulled away from him, because he knew all of seven other people in this city, one of which was already present, and he was expecting approximately none of them. 

Her arms returned to her side, her eyes going from the table full of recreated blueprints to the direction of the door where it was out of sight around the corner. Then, he saw the exact moment when it clicked for her, her expression shifting from cautiously aggressive (offense was her defense) to something damn near sheepish, real quick.

“Nat, what did you do,” he asked, too condemning of whatever he  _ knew  _ she was somehow responsible for to really be a proper question.

“Uh, well. This might be awkward,” she admitted, walking toward the door now.

“Natasha…”

“So remember about twenty minutes ago when it was still fun to make fun of you about your fledgling romance? So right about then I texted James-”

“ _ Natasha no _ .” Be backed away from her down the other end of the counter, staring wide eyed at her with as much betrayal packed into one look as he could possibly muster. It wasn’t even hard to do.

“Hey,” she warned, giving him a pointed look. “Trust me. It’ll be fine. Just, be brave, okay? Baby steps.”

Four more less patient knocks at the door.

“Hold on,” Natasha yelled before looking back to Clint and resuming.“And really you should be flattered or something. His response time to ‘SOS Clint’s place’ is surprisingly quick.”

Yeah. On Natasha’s scale of really good to really bad friend, Clint knew which was she was trending.

She disappeared from sight as she turned the corner out of the kitchen, into the short hallway on her way to the door. She continued speaking though, a little louder to make sure he heard. “Of course that might also have something to do with me not answering any of his-” a pause as she must have checked her phone- “nine texts asking a few variations of what’s happened, some more polite than others.”

He heard the door open, the hinges just the right amount of creaky to be an effective warning system.

Fuck. 

He was going to die. 

The thought of escape flashed through his head, but then he recalled the fact that some dumbass had nailed the windows closed. Why _ the fuck  _ would someone _ do that? _

That was it then, Clint figured. There being no viable means of escape, he was just going to have to die.

He sighed down at his only partly finished blueprints, too exhausted in too many ways to entertain any other ideas. He really would have prefered for everyone to just go away and let him give in to the weight crushing his chest and carrying him right down through the floorboards already. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bucky did not appreciate emergency texts followed by radio silence. 

Was there a change of plans? An Interpol raid? Did someone back out? Was someone dying? Should he expect blaring sirens or shadows around dark corners? Basically, what he needed to know was if it was a prepare-for-violence-or-not sort of occasion. 

He was already hyper-vigilant in the helpless paranoia driven sort of way and barely keeping his hands from shaking by time he arrived at the top of the last flight of stairs. It seemed like the ‘or not’ type though when Natasha opened the door, leaning casually against the frame with a pleasant smile. No immediate threat then. But he couldn’t help but notice and mentally catalogue her presentation, the false smile she wore, how she conveniently blocked the entrance. 

“What the fuck-” That was it. He got three words out.

“Pause,” she interrupted, holding up a hand, and despite the anxious energy that had possessed him for the past twenty or so minutes, he acquiesced. Barely. His patience was thin. “First, not a code red emergency. Second, thank you for coming on such short notice. And third, I’m sorry, I realize now that I could have been more clear in my message that-”

“Or you could’ve fucking responded,” he growled, pissed off and feeling absolutely in the right to be. He started forward but she didn’t budge, just smiled apologetically and lifted her hand again, pushing back against his chest.  “You’re the one who texted me. Do you wanna do this in the hallway? I really wouldn’t recommend it.”

“As I was saying,” she resumed, giving him a pointed look that he didn’t quite understand,  “I could have been more clear that this is not a come in guns blazing sort of event. So please, for everyone’s convenience, check your weapons at the door.”

He frowned. “What, just because you send a vague SOS you think-” 

Raising an eyebrow, she gave him a look that he did understand pretty clearly. Rolling his eyes, after a quick glance down the empty hallway, he pulled the handgun from the back of his belt where it was hidden under his jacket and set it in her waiting palm. 

“You’re very sweet,” Natasha said, almost like it was an afterthought, smiling as she reached behind her to set the weapon down on a small table tucked against the wall in the hallway.

He ignored that. “What’s going on? Am I allowed in or not?” he asked, leaning to the side to peer around her. “Did something happen?”

“Yes, just, well no, one question at a ti-”

“It would go a lot faster if you fuckin’ let me in,” he said, catching her off guard as he pushed the door open the rest of the way and passed her into the small entryway. He was done with whatever this stalling was.

“Fine,” she said, throwing her hands up in surrender. She kicked the door shut, stalking into the apartment behind him. “If you want it to be your problem, it’s your problem now.”

He swept his eyes over the sparsely furnished living room, hyper-vigilance forcing its way back to the forefront of his conscious as he was all too familiar with the signs of danger he was looking for. There was the hall branching off to probably a bedroom, a closed door at the end, there was where the room merged with the kitchen, and he paused a minute on the table strewn with paper and drawings of floor plans, and stopped on Clint. 

The man was standing behind the table glaring down in it’s direction but most through it, the look distant, his weight leaned heavily on his palms flat on the surface. And while everything appeared to be mostly fine (no blood, no signs of a struggle, nobody in the room that shouldn’t be, so no, not a code red event), Clint’s jaw was set tight, his shoulders rigid, with every line of him that was usually careless and unrestrained tense, his movement as he slid another paper over in front of him clipped. 

Something was wrong. It knotted uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

“What problem,” Bucky asked Natasha quietly, the fight or flight instinct fading only to be replaced with something cold and heavy.

“Him.”

“I mean, what happened,” he clarified, mouth dry.

“I-” she paused, considered it- “might have broken him,” she admitted, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall. “There was fighting involved, but he was being  _ stupid _ ,” she said, raising her voice and turning to glare a Clint in a way that suggested she was clearly talking at him, but he didn’t react. “And oh look, now he’s gone and taken his ears out,” she said as she realized it, rolling her eyes with an exasperated expression. “Asshole,” she cursed at him even louder this time, still glaring.

“Fuck off,” Clint said, tone clipped. He hadn’t looked up but must have registered her raised volume directed at him. “I’m busy and I can’t hear you.”

“Uh, okay,” Bucky said, nodding. “Okay.” He didn’t know what to do, not really, considering he didn’t know what had happened and Natasha wasn’t being helpful and Clint had never done this before, at least not that he’d been there for. Then there was still the fact that Natasha was standing right there, and even if she knew about them- Jesus, ‘them’ should have sounded weird even in his head given the implication but it _didn’t_ - it was still… it felt like she shouldn’t be.

Natasha wasn’t stupid though. She was standing next to him all the sudden. “Are you staying?” she asked, tone unreadable.

“Yes,” he said automatically.

“Okay. Great. I’m going then. I’ll take that polite request to fuck off as being directed at me.” She shoved her phone into her pocket, took a couple steps over to the end of the couch where she’d slung her jacket, collected it, and then she was on her way out the door.

“And James?”

He turned his head over his shoulder, blinked back at her. “Yeah?”

She took a breath to speak, but hesitated, sighing instead. She looked, mournful, almost. But only for a moment. “Just…. Nevermind. I’m sure there’s nothing left I need to say.”

Bucky took a halting breath, not knowing what to say to that. Not exactly. He didn’t have time to formulate a response either. Natasha slipped away too quickly. The sound of the door closing was possibly the loudest thing he’d ever heard. Then it was silent. Way too silent.

Right.

Christ.

He was not qualified for this. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Clint refused to look at him, or up, or anywhere except at the roughly penciled lines. He knew Bucky was standing at the table next to him under some sort of pretense of looking at the designs. Clint had caught him in his periphery, even though it felt like Bucky was careful not to come too close. But he felt him there more than anything. He had a presence to him. It was usually steady, kind of calming, which should’ve been weird given that Bucky was most definitely the scariest thing in the room. But he was also, sort of, a safe place?

And Clint was, of course, a little terrified that that would change. Obviously something  _ had  _ to change because of, well, Sweden happened, and the degree of unpredictability that carried was frightening enough. That was already threatening to spill right out of his slowly established, well guarded comfort zone. 

But that other thing... he didn’t know if it was just the memory of it or if it was the feeling that he had been  _ lying _ , that it was false advertising or some bullshit, that everything had been built on top of sand.

Bucky was saying something, his tone the sort of low that, without his aids in, Clint just heard as a gentle murmur. It washed over everything else with its ups and downs, way more soothing than it had a right to be. 

Clint took a deep breath, held it for a couple seconds, closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, letting the tightness between his shoulders go just a little. He felt a gentle brush behind him as Bucky moved to his other side, a light pressure settling on one side of his waist as Bucky’s hand lingered there, his arm wrapped loosely behind Clint’s lower back. His other hand came to settle on Clint’s forearm, sliding down to stop at his wrist and gently tug him away from the table, urging but not pulling Clint to turn toward him, to open up from where he’d closed himself off.

Clint glanced sideways at him, forgetting his rule of absolutely not making eye contact because who knew what stupid shit would inexplicably tumble out of his mouth if he did. Bucky just smiled disarmingly, a little weakly but on the right side of reassuring, and with a little bit of a question written on his face as he tilted his head to the side, not getting it.

Clint breathed out heavily, clenching his jaw before forcing himself to let that go too. Be brave, be an adult, be reasonable- all of Natasha’s past advice running on repeat through his head, even if he was angry with her right now. Begrudgingly, he straightened up a little, letting Bucky pull him away from the table, rotating toward him. 

Slowly, hesitant and careful and giving Clint all the time in the world to pull away, as if his traitorous body would do anything but lean into the touch, Bucky’s left hand drifted to Clint’s jaw, fingertips barely there as he gently coaxed Clint’s chin up so he’d look at him instead of at some place a thousand miles away.

And then he was saying something, and oh boy was Clint a little rusty at reading lips- not that he was ever great at it to begin with- but he mostly got it. It was a phrase that, needless to say, he got a lot. 

[Are you okay?]

Clint laughed, dry and mostly humourless and little more than huff of breath through his nose. “Depends who you ask,” he said dryly, tone flat and volume measured.

Bucky smiled weakly, but his eyes were nervous.  

Bucky’s other hand drifted back to Clint’s waist, as if to keep him from backing away. [Can we (he?) talk?]

Clint turned his head away, trying to keep a neutral expression as he felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. That could mean nothing great. 

But with his hand still barely cupping Clint’s jaw, he guided him back before his brain could run anywhere else with the simple request, drawing Clint’s eyes up to meet his again. [Hey, --s (?) okay. We have -s lawn (as long) as you need.]

“No,” Clint said, shaking his head, exhaling shakily. “No it’s- I just-” He pulled away from Bucky’s grip- it wasn’t hard, he let him go- turning and taking a step and grabbing his aids off the countertop. Bucky moved with him, stepping in close again, his hands settling at Clint’s waist as he softly urged him closer.

Clint ducked his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder, going willingly, and Bucky wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer still. A small sound escaped the back of Clint’s throat, not that he could hear it. From the vibrations resonating from Bucky’s chest and the whisper of breath behind his ear, he was murmuring something, probably meant to be comforting. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t make out the words; it was annoying that it worked.

Slowly, resolutely, hearing Natasha say  _ baby steps baby steps  _ in his head over and over again, he slid one of his aids into place, the the other, still tucked into the curve of Bucky’s shoulder.

“I’m okay,” Clint said, determined to keep his voice even. “I’m fine.”

Bucky leaned back, enough space between them to look Clint in the eye. “You don’t have to be,” he said, cradling Clint’s face between his hands. He swiped his thumb over Clint’s cheek. “Not right away. I know this is-” He hesitated, pulling back a margin. “Is this okay?”

Clint hummed his consent with a faint nod, drawn forward against Bucky again, his eyes drifting closed. This was too easy. Too easy to forget why he was playing with a ticking time bomb here, to push that inevitable heartache off for a later date.

Heartache? No, he was not going there with that. He couldn’t let himself do that.

Bucky was suddenly pulling away, his hands going to Clint’s wrists and tugging him with him, coaxing him forward. Clint made a sound of protest, refusing to budge at first, limbs too heavy and exhausted. Bucky stepped back into his space, threading one arm behind him and with his other hand tilting his chin up and into a soft kiss, nothing more than a brief brush of lips really, but it was a reassurance and Clint forgot his resolve to stay put and he went with him this time when Bucky pulled, practically melting against his chest. Too easy.

“Come on,” Bucky said, taking a deep breath and stepping backward, drawing Clint along with him with a stubborn whine of protest still. “If we’re gonna wallow in self-doubt and misery then we’re gonna do it on the couch like normal people, not while glaring at the table of bootlegged blueprints hard enough to make them combust.” Only glancing over his shoulder once to avoid the corner of the table, he led them in that direction.

Clint grumbled in wordless displeasure but Bucky ignored that, giving him a gentle tug across the floor, that sad sort of smile- maybe it was fondness, but it seemed a little more melancholy than that- still a subtle quirk at the edges of his mouth and around his eyes. Clint stopped at the foot of the couch, not sure what the plan here was, but quite suddenly Bucky put a hand on his sternum and shoved him backwards. With a rather indignant yelp of surprise that had Bucky smirking, Clint toppled over the arm of the couch, landing awkwardly but without mishap on the lumpy cushions.

“The fuck?” 

Bucky ignored him, wordlessly nudging at his knees until he moved, scrambling back across the couch until there was room. He sat, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other resting on his knee as he twisted to look at Clint expectantly. Clint blinked blankly at him, too shocked at whatever this was to remember he was brooding, waiting for some sort of explanation. 

“What?”

“So you’re freaking out, huh?” Bucky asked without preamble. 

Clint curled his knees up to his chest, arms crossed over them, his back against the far armrest. “No…”

Bucky gave him that look. The ‘that bullshit’s so obvious I’m not even gonna call you out on it because we both know it’s that bad’ look. A classic, really. And all too familiar to Clint.

He swallowed, offering a half-assed shrug. “Maybe…?”

“Why?” It wasn’t judgemental. It was Bucky wanting to know, like he actually cared about how Clint felt, and that was not an easy thing to identify for Clint. Less familiar. It took him a minute of consideration of that note in his tone to identify.

“Becau- because  _ I  _ don’t know,” Clint snapped, throwing his hands up halfway to an aborted ‘what the hell’ sort of gesture. “Why do I suddenly have to know the reason behind everything I do? Because I figure I wouldn’t be me without at least one good freak-out per week. Guess it’s just that sort of day.”

“Hey, I’m not looking for you to get defensive here,” Bucky said, still even keel, and maybe Clint would have prefered if he got just a little angry, just once. 

“Well that’s my default, so that’s what you get,” Clint said, arms crossed, definitely defensive.

Bucky scooted across the couch, stopping midway even as Clint drew himself in closer, further away. “Come on now, don’t be like that. Seriously, the sarcasm’s funny any other day, but I’m thinking we should actually talk here. You know. About stuff.”

Clint froze, that resurging anxiety twisting up his insides like an icy fist clenching in his gut. Talk. “Right…”

“I get the feeling that we both probably suck at that,” Bucky sighed, but he was grinning, reaching over and grabbing hold of Clint’s ankle and tugging his leg out as if to make him uncurl. Clint relented, shuffling sideways and putting his bare feet on the floor, even if it was too cold for that, leaving Bucky room to slide in closer. “But you know we’ve gotta, sooner or later. To figure out, well,” Bucky searched for the right words, “where we are.”

“I don’t- shit,” Clint breathed, “can we just start with something, I don’t know, smaller? If we’re, I mean-” he stopped trying with a frustrated sound. “You know.”

“Gonna talk this through like adults?” Bucky asked, smirking.

“The holes in these sweatpants have holes and my t-shirt’s more faded coffee-stain than it is whatever the original color was supposed to be. I don’t feel very adult right now,” Clint said, and Bucky laughed, shaking his head. 

“Well princess, that’s just how it is sometimes,” Bucky said dismissively, with an easy grin settling into place that spoke of more confidence than Clint thought he’d ever personally felt in his entire life. “But we should maybe steer more to the ‘just a rough day’ side of the spectrum and less to the ‘sulky and brooding like a professional’ side.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Oh, wait, hold on a minute there Mr. Only Wears Black Leather, Casual Death Stare, Probably Enjoys the Smell of Napalm in the Morning,” Clint got out in one breath, “what’s this about not brooding like a professional? Wow, is that a thing people can do?” Clint asked, faux surprised and amazed. 

Bucky sighed, visibly struggling to but then deciding to not rise to the bait. Clint couldn’t help the smug grin of his own that broke through his charade. “You’re a fuckin’ menace, Barton,” he deadpanned, deeply unamused. But then he shook his head, that stupidly easy slight smile returning, and the exasperation rolled off him like oil on water. “A threat to the public health and wellbeing,” he accused, all while dropping an arm behind his shoulders and yanking him not so much closer as out of the bubble Clint’s tried to put himself in. “Anyone ever tell you that?” 

“Well I won’t argue with that,” Clint said, shrugging, and giving in to Bucky’s maneuvering if only because he was freaking cold and wouldn’t be so opposed to leaching some warmth from Bucky’s side. He shuffling a little to get comfortable, having enough of this sitting like a normal person nonsense and pulling his feet back up to the edge of the couch, off the freezing floor. “My formative years were mostly filled with questionable role models and petty theft. Maybe a little grand larceny. Not my fault. Blame the education system.”

Bucky snorted in surprised laughter, grinning broadly and shaking his head. “Yeah, saw that coming,” Bucky admitted, shifting to pull Clint more comfortably into his side and pressing his mouth to the top of Clint’s head, still smirking when he pulled away. “But I think you turned out okay.”

“Okay?” Clint parroted back, doubtful. “None of us are  _ okay _ . If we were okay, we wouldn’t be working with other you-know-whos for you-know-whats. We’d be at some sort of miserable day jobs right now, something we’d need a four year degree for and a resume with stuff on it that’s much less impressive, done in a lot fewer countries, that’s a lot more legal.”

Bucky looked curiously at him, pausing for a moment. “You don’t wish just a little bit that you had a normal life, normal job, normal friends?”

Clint considered it, but only for a second. “Nah,” he decided, decisively. “Boring. I don’t do well with routine.”

Bucky smirked, the sort of fond expression that said ‘of course you don’t’. He ran a hand none too gently through Clint’s hair, pinning Clint to his side with his other arm as he tried to escape it.

There was a moment there when they settled down, both grinning stupidly and Clint leaning back into Bucky’s side, that was long enough for Clint to come to the realization that they  _ had  _ been talking. That it hadn’t been awkward, or uncomfortable, and that’s why that little part of him craved it. 

“That was talking, see? Not too hard,” Bucky said, having the same realization, apparently. 

Clint frowned, shook his head. “‘s different,” he said, shrugging, and nuzzling his face back into the crook of Bucky’s neck because that was clearly better than eye contact, the two of them sliding down against the back of the couch and ending up sprawled across the length of it.

“Okay,” Bucky said, not necessarily agreeing but going along with it anyway. “How do you want to do it- to talk about it- then?”

Clint was quiet for a long while, thinking about that. Bucky let him take his time, carefully shifting closer to the outside edge of the cushions so that Clint had more room between him and the back of the couch to fit more comfortably, even if he was half sprawled overtop of him, his arm thrown over Bucky’s midriff and his head pillowed on his shoulder.

Clint took a deep breath, and couldn’t help but shudder a little as he let it out. “Baby steps,” he all but whispered.

He felt Bucky lift his head off the couch slightly, but there was no angle to get a read on Clint’s expression from there. “M’kay,” he said, his hand drifting up to brush his knuckles lightly over Clint’s cheek. He was quiet for a minute, thinking. “Yeah. Think we can manage that.”

Clint drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second and really, really wishing that Natasha had imparted a little more wisdom than “be brave”. He didn’t even know what that meant. 

How was he supposed to know what that meant?

“Yeah?” Bucky asked, looking for some kind of reassurance that Clint was present, and not disappearing entirely back into his own head..

“Yeah,” Clint said. “Think I can do that.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

What had started out carefully plotted and measured if hitching steps turning into a steady walk, but somewhere along the way it devolved into a headlong tumble down a steep incline. Not necessarily a bad thing. Not necessarily an accidental thing. Maybe more like a 1987 The Princess Bride-style throw yourself down a hill for the hell of it kind of thing, Bucky decided. But only because they somehow started going with movie references again. He didn’t know how.

Eh, the metaphor got away from him. Point was, some of the seriousness and intentionality of the  _ talking _ \- the talking being both the act and the purpose of what they were doing- got lost along the way. It was definitely more comfortable that way, far out of the realm of impending panic attacks.

“You are frighteningly attractive,” Clint blurted out, bluntly, with probably a wicked grin on his face, not that Bucky could see it. “It really isn’t fair.”

But Bucky absolutely prefered him where he was, draped across the lower half of his body as they stretched across the couch, Bucky sort of sitting upright with his shoulders against the armrest and Clint face down on top of him, his cheek resting against Bucky’s abdomen and one hand splayed across his chest, the other arm dangling off the couch.

He chuckled, more breath than anything, running a hand through Clint’s hair. “Aw, you should’ve led with that princess,” he teased, possibly lower than was absolutely necessary. “And this whole process wouldn't ‘ve taken so long.”

Clint scrunched up his face in disagreement-faux-disgust at ‘princess’, which was adorable, even more so when he finally let that drop and opted instead to go on nuzzling his face against Bucky’s shirt and humming appreciatively as Bucky carded his fingers through his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp. “Sorry, just came to mind,” Clint murmured. “Because I’ve been steadily running out of things to say and because I can’t tell if this is your sternum or muscle,” Clint said, tapping a finger to Bucky’s chest where his hand already rested over the taut fabric of Bucky’s shirt, just to make his point. 

Rolling his eyes, Bucky pressed his other hand over Clint’s to stop his poking, interweaving their fingers and leaving it there, because why not. “That’s not-” he sighed, not sure why he bothered. “Dumbass” he scolded lightly, but couldn’t help grinning. “Don’t you know where a sternum is?”

Clint shrugged awkwardly from where he was sprawled over most of Bucky, but Bucky could feel him smother a stupid grin against his stomach. “I dunno. It might be there. Might hafta check,” he said, the absolute tenor of innocence.

“Ha, smooth,” Bucky said, tugging lightly at his hair and opting to ignore both the line about potential shirtlessness and the pur that move on his part pulled from Clint, like a fucking kitten. He was learning a lot of things tonight. 

They’d been at this game of a million random things for at least an hour. Some were absolutely irrelevant, ranging from favorite colors to small snippets of distant memories to ridiculous stories all the way to names they would give a pet, if they had one. And Clint did have one it seemed. A dog that stayed with someone named Kate who was some sort of protege (Bucky wasn’t expecting that) on the West Coast. Then there was the more real stuff scattered in between the easy stuff, the stuff that Clint seemed to find difficult to say when making eye contact. The fear of fuck-ups and let-downs and poor people skills and what the fuck where they actually doing. The stuff that required a steadier pace.

“You? Run out of things to say? Never. Definitely not when you’ve been mulling over saying something this entire time,” Bucky muttered, not condemning, far from it. Just a point. Clint tensed a little, pulling his hand out from under Bucky’s and sliding it under his cheek. “Not saying you have to,” Bucky clarified. “Just…” Just something was weighing on him, had been since it left him glaring death at an innocent table of illegally re-created blueprints, since it chased Natasha out the door, and Bucky didn’t like it.

“There’s this thing that I feel like I have to tell you,” he finally said, quiet but clear. “It’s… it’s a big thing. And it’s not great. I feel like, you’d want to know, if you knew what it was, because I feel like I’m lying if not. But it’s not like I enjoy talking about, pretty much the exact opposite actually, and I’ve not really had to explain it to anyone in a while and I don’t even know if I can.” He took a breath, still tense, but falling silent. That was it. 

“That’s okay,” he said, dragging the hand that was carding through his hair down Clint’s back and up again. “You don’t have to, not right now.”

“And if it’s more like- like a disclosure?” Clint asked, tilting his head up and lifting himself up enough to meet Bucky’s eyes for a moment, looking conflicted and nervous and a couple other things Bucky couldn't pick out. “And later’s too late?” 

Bucky considered that, trying to be fair and thoughtful about it, but just the way he said it left a sour taste in his mouth. When it came to the match of Not Great Thing v Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes was squarely in Clint’s corner, one hundred percent. “Is this the thing that everyone else seems to know that had them walking around you on eggshells? That pushed you into early retirement?”

“Yeah,” Clint rasped. “Nat- she said I should just tell you. That it wouldn’t-”

“Don’t.”

Clint stopped mid sentence, his face spelling all sorts of confusion when he pushed himself up, looking at Bucky for some sort of explanation. “What?”

“Don’t,” Bucky repeated. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of something that shouldn’t be, and really didn’t want to chase Clint away. “Don’t tell me just because Nat said to or because other people already know. I’m fine not knowing. You don’t have to tell me.”

Flopping onto his side, pressed between Bucky and the back of the couch, Clint exhaled heavily, his breath tickling Bucky’s skin where the hem of his shirt was rucked up. Clint pressed his forehead against Bucky’s side, eyes closed tight like he was afraid of what he might see. “How can you say that when you don’t even know what it is?” he asked, sounding small and uncertain in every way that tugged at Bucky’s heart. A pause, then quieter as Clint’s throat caught on the words, “Because it’s kind of a dealbreaker?” 

“Aw, sweetheart,” Bucky said, wanting so badly to pull him closer but afraid that wasn’t what he needed or wanted. “You’re not the only one with skeletons in your closet. And I’d bet just about anything that mine are worse. Unless you enjoy killing puppies or some dumb shit I can’t imagine you’ve got anything hiding there remotely resembling a dealbreaker.”

Clint didn’t say anything to that, just tucked his head against Bucky’s chest. For Bucky, it was hard to mistake it for anything but hurting. He hated it, wanted to fix it, but didn’t really know how beyond exactly this, and finding some way to convince him that he didn’t care, that right or wrong he was on his side.

It wasn’t that Bucky didn’t have morals or a conscious or lines he wasn’t willing to cross. Just that he had lived most of his life outside of the conventional ones. And so, out of consistency, he cared about  _ people _ . People who were above those lines in the sand, rather than before or behind them. And there was a certain number, a very small number, of very specific people- all of them family, if not by blood then by choice and by crucible- that he cared about most. When Clint fucking Barton became one of those people, he wasn’t sure. 

He was probably making some obscure cult classic reference or a fucking obnoxious pun when he did, though.

“So Steve and Nat both know about this thing, yeah?” Bucky asked. 

Clint nodded after a moment, a quiet affirmative.

“So the way I see it,” Bucky said, continuing to run his fingers through Clint’s hair, “both of them trust you. Nat’s moral compass might be a little bit skewed, but honestly so is mine. And if she’s thrown her lot in with you, can’t see any reason this thing would stop me doin’ the same. But if you don’t like that answer, Steve’s just about the most upstanding guy I know. An annoying asshole, sure, but a goddamn Robin Hood if there ever were one.” 

Clint snorted weakly, smiling just a little at that. “You sure you two are friends?”

“Eh, not really my choice anymore. More like a brother really, but that sounds way too sappy so don’t tell anyone I said that.”

Clint grinned at that, but didn’t say anything more.

“The point I was making,” Bucky resumed, “is do you know how fuckin’ hard Steve was ready to push to get you on this team? And not because you’re good- which you are, don’t get me wrong- but because he  _ trusts  _ you. And if Steve thinks you’re even a halfway decent guy, skeletons and all, that’s good enough for me,” Bucky finished resolutely. 

After a moment, Clint pulled away, shuffling back up onto his knees to finally look at Bucky. He looked a little confused though. “I thought Nat pulled me onto this…” he trailed off. “She’d been trying to pull me out of retirement for months.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked. “I mean yeah, she told Steve she’d only do it if you did, but Steve was already gonna ask you. In fact, he thought that Natasha was going to ask him to leave you alone actually. He had a whole speech prepared to convince her otherwise. But no, turned out she wanted you on board maybe just as badly.”

Clint frowned, narrowing his eyes at Bucky like he didn’t quite believe him. “I kinda thought…” His mouth twisted like the memory of an unpleasant taste lingered there. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?” Bucky asked, propping himself up on his elbows. “What did you think?”

“It- it doesn’t-” Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, and he just sighed, shoulders deflating, giving in. “I  _ thought  _ Natasha’s ultimatum was a whole, if Steve wanted her on board, which he did because she’s the best, then he’d have to take me too sort of thing, so that’s why he asked.”

“No,” Bucky said, stern and almost angry, because fuck that. “Steve wanted,  _ needed _ , still does,  a grifter and a thief, and he wanted the best he could get. When you first turned it down, he was ready to trash the whole thing, rather than bring people he didn’t know on board.  _ That _ ,” Bucky said, sitting fulling upright and bringing a hand to Clint’s jawline, his thumb sweeping carelessly over a day’s worth of stubble, the corner of his mouth catching in a smirk as it dragged over Clint’s bottom lip, “long story short, is how I know Steve thinks pretty highly of you. But can we stop talking about Steve now? Christ, the guy already invades every other part of my life.” 

Clint smiled faintly at that. “Yeah,” he said quietly, slightly gravelly with words unsaid, grabbing Bucky’s hand with his own and turning his head to press his mouth to the inside of Bucky’s wrist for the briefest moment. “Yeah, I get it,” he said, head bowed and refusing to look up at Bucky, and then, his voice low and a little raspy, “thanks.”

Bucky pulled his hand away from Clint’s loose grip and, hands buried in the material of his shirt, tugged him closer against his chest with a brush of a kiss against his temple. “Of course.”

It felt like they lost a little ground. It took a while longer to bring Clint fully out from behind the walls he’d started throwing up, and longer still to slowly cajole and maneuver him back to how they were before, comfortable in each other’s space. 

Not quite like before. Bucky sat only mostly upright, wedged comfortably into the corner where the cushioned back of the couch met the armrest, with one leg stretched out along the length of the couch, knee drawn up a little bit, with the other leg off the side, foot on the floor. Clint’s back was against Bucky’s chest, his head lolled back against his shoulder, the couch providing just enough room for the two of them to make it work. Not perfect, but a cozy fit nonetheless.

“I think it’s your turn to say a thing,” Clint mumbled, humming happily when Bucky pressed a light kiss behind his ear. 

“Alright,” Bucky said, racking his brain for something as he dropped his head back, staring up at the rafters. “Alright. Uh, damn. Okay. You’ve got a really weird ceiling here.”

Clint’s shoulders shook in silent laughter as he turned his head to the side, forehead pressed against the back fo the couch to hide the stupid smile that he was all too tired in too many ways to force back. “I know,” he said, vindicated. “That’s what I told Tasha. She didn’t think so.”

“No? Huh.” Bucky’s mind didn’t wander much farther than the ceiling. “You okay if we switch to questions? I’m comin’ up empty.”

Clint tilted his head back and twisted to the other side enough to catch Bucky’s eye for a moment. “Yeah, s’fine,” he said. “Only if I get to pass though.”

“Sure,” Bucky agreed, craning his head forward to catch Clint’s bottom lip between his own, relishing the surprised but not displeased sound from Clint’s throat as he returned the kiss. Because he could do that now. Because they were doing that. It was fleeting though, and he nipped at Clint’s lip before pulling back, resuming their game like it hadn’t happened. Not because it was a thing best ignored or forgotten, but because it felt, well, normal?

Bucky figured he’d start out easy. “Stupidest thing you’re afraid of. Go.”

Clint huffed out a small breath, warm and a little damp as it curled around Bucky’s collar. “Spider webs that you don’t see until you run into ‘em. No, wait,” he said almost immediately, rethinking it and chewing at his bottom lip, unsure. “Vegans.” Bucky laughed, rolling his eyes. “No, seriously,” Clint insisted. “They don’t make sense, like aliens or something.”

“Okay, fine,” Bucky said. “You go.”

“Uh, what’s the most awkward, all-around horrible story you can tell me about Steve?”

“Hey,” Bucky warned him, smiling though. “First of all, that’s not what this is about. I’ve had enough of Steve. He doesn’t factor into this equation. And second of all, no, I’m not giving you blackmail material, you ass.”

“Boo, you’re no fun,” Clint said, poking him in the side. “But fine. One place you’d like to go back to?”

“Hm, a good question,” Bucky mused. “There was this small coastal city on an island in the Maldives. Kind of touristy, but it helps to blend in,” Bucky explained, his mind thrown back there for a moment. “And if you get inland a little, away from the resorts, it’s- well it was pretty nice, you know?”

Clint nodded, his gaze unfocused as he thought about it for a moment before glancing back at Bucky, a hint of a grin starting to tug at his mouth. “The Maldives doesn’t have extradition with the US, does it?”

Bucky huffed a laugh at that, grinning. “No, no it doesn’t.”

“A good choice then,” Clint said, shifting down just a little and twisting to the side to get more comfortable, all the more plastered to Bucky’s chest as he curled into him, eyes falling shut as he hummed contentedly. “You’re turn.”

“What’s your middle name?”

Clint inhaled sharply, looking comically pained. “Pass,” he said.

“No,” Bucky chided, grinning. “You know mine and you’ve made fun of it plenty. So answer the question, or I’ll ask a worse one.”

Clint groaned, eyes shut tight as he scrunched up his face into something equal parts disgusted and deeply uncomfortable. Bucky just chuckled, wrapping his arms around Clint’s midriff and pulling him up closer, muffling his smile against the side of his neck as he squirmed. “I didn’t pick it,” he grumbled the obvious.

“Oh, so you would’ve picked something cool? Like ‘hawkeye’?” he mocked.

“Hey, I didn’t pick that either, I just kinda rolled with it,” he said, borderline offended, “allegedly,” he remembered to add. “But no, I would’ve picked something goddamn  _ normal _ .”

“I know it starts with ‘F’,” Bucky said. “I looked through the contacts on Steve’s phone, and he’s just got initials. So there’s really not that many options.”

Clint sighed heavily, dragging his hands over his face and muttering something with a low tone that Bucky could only classify as entirely begrudging and altogether regretful. 

“Sorry, what was that?” Bucky asked, biting back a wide grin and milking the moment for all it was worth. 

“Oh quit laughing,” Clint swore, elbowing him in the ribs in retribution. “I said Francis. It’s Francis, okay? Get over yourself,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes. 

Bucky hummed thoughtfully, stifling the rest of the laughter bubbling up in his chest. “Come on now, Francis,” he said innocently. “It’s not even that bad.”

“Well,” Clint said, curling against Bucky further with his back pressed against the back of the couch, his cheek settled on Bucky’s chest just below his collar bone. “Makes me wonder what your ‘worse’ question is.” 

“It’s not really,” Bucky said, shrugging slightly. “Shouldn’t be.”

“And it is…?” he glanced up at Bucky’s face, curiosity written on his own.

“Hey Clint?” Bucky asked innocently, the barest curl of a smirk curling sharply at the corner of his mouth.

“Mhhmm?” 

“You wanna be my boyfriend?” He was, truthfully, impressed with how casually he put it.

Clint’s steady rhythm of inhale-exhale faltered the moment the words passed is lips, his whole body freezing. “Okay, fuck, shit, yeah, that’s, well that’s that,” he stammered helplessly, laughing nervously. “And here I thought you’d somehow found out and were gonna ask something hard about like that time Nat and I were fake-married but that’s- that’s a lot-”

“You and Natasha were  _ what? _ ”

“-that was, that was for an ID,” he said, a little defensive and tripping himself up,sitting upright and turning to face Bucky as his did. “That was tax purposes is what that was. But yep, nope, sounds good,” Clint said quickly, redirecting. “Sure, might as well.”

Bucky sighed, long and exasperated. “It’s honestly impressive how you manage to fail so spectacularly at putting words into a sentence. Well done. Truly.”

Clint looked a little sheepish. “Dealbreaker?” he asked, hesitant, but grinning and a little breathless. Not in the way that hurt.

“No,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes. “No, just a talent of yours I guess, you little shit.”

Clint just grinned, moving as if to get up from the couch. He didn’t make it that far. Bucky lunged forward, toppling him back onto the cushions with a surprised laugh once again, this time caging him there, the devilish smirk uncurling along Bucky’s lips leaving his intentions unmistakable.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Leave it to Steve Rogers to ruin a good thing, somehow, because of his inability to quit nitpicking at what he’d already overthought. 

He always had this fantastic way of being a goddamn cockblock at the worst of times, even when he wasn’t trying- 

Bucky physically stopped himself mid staircase, a little taken aback at where his frustrated internal rant was coming from. Because he and Clint had not been going there. Were not going there. Bad idea. What the hell happened to baby steps? Yes to communicating like pros and then making out on the couch a little bit, no to anything more than that. Right. Stairs resumed.

About fifty minutes ago he’d been making out with the guy that had pretty quickly become one of his best friends. Then forty minutes ago he was making out with his boyfriend, and wasn’t that a wild turn of events. (It really wouldn’t be if he’d been a bit more honest with himself a bit sooner.) And if that had gone on any longer he was pretty sure he would’ve gotten a little more handsy with his very-good-friend-turned-boyfriend. And if that had gone on then, well, maybe it was a good thing that Steve had happened.

Didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

He’d had Clint pliant and practically purring and gorgeous like always in his hands and all manner of things he wanted to do when his phone rang. And he’d ignored it the first time, but then it rang  _ again _ , that that usually meant a crisis. Steve was short on details, as was protocol for communicating over an unsecure phone line, but said something about Tony and unexpected obstacles and he needed him at his apartment ASAP.

He was gettin’ real fucking tired of this vague emergency summons bullshit.

Clint was a little disappointed maybe but not willing to show it. At the time he made a vague gesture to the table and the half-finished blueprint reconstruction going on there and said something about needed to finish that anyway. Then there was the brief slightly awkward and very short conversation they nearly forgot to have regarding if they were keeping these new developments as a between-themselves sort of thing, excepting Natasha who just knew things anyway, and they agreed they were. Best keep it that way for now at least.

Then he was collecting his things and out the door.

“There better be a goddamn body on the fucking floor, Rogers,” Bucky barked into the apartment when he got there, finding it unlocked, which was admittedly a little concerning, but Steve was never personal-security conscious. Fuckin’ art-types. Somehow avoided most the violence and the pissing people off to the point of trying to kill them part of their underworld. 

Still. He closed it behind him, making sure it locked.

Not seeing anyone he walked straight through the sitting room, around the bend of the awkwardly designed, cramped corner apartment, and into the kitchen-slash-dining room. 

Steve was leaning heavily against the table, his hands braced on the edge and face wearing that pinched expression as he stared down at the wood that revealed the gears turning inside his head. Tony was perched on a seat, frowning and kicking his legs absently, but he perked up when he saw Bucky turn the corner.

“Ah, Barnes, no murder or dead bodies I’m afraid. Hope that’s not a problem,” Tony said, a genuine but tired smile following the words. “I do need you to get Steve off the warpath though.”

Steve looked up and gave him an appreciative nod for coming, ignoring Tony, but that was it.

“That’s like an every other day occurance for him, Stark. I’m gettin’ real tired of the emergency calls about situations that aren’t so emergent,” Bucky complained, walking with heavy steps over to the table just to let them know he was annoyed, if the pretty blunt facial expression didn’t do the trick.

“Why?” Tony asked, interested. “Getting a lot of those recently?”

He waved it off, shaking his head. “Natasha had a thing. False alarm. It’s fine.”

“What sort of false alarm?” Steve asked, sounding concerned because of course.

“Nothing,” Bucky said dismissively. “Details would bore you.” He turned to open the refrigerator, pulling a bottled water off the shelf.

Tony made a surprised sound behind him at just about the same time Steve said, a little more sternly and in that tone that said he was in trouble, “Not if it involves you needing a gun.”

Bucky hissed a few choice expletives under his breath, more because of the hassle it was going to be to back Steve off now that anything else. His hand went to the back of his belt to make sure the handgun was still secure. It was, but had just managed to peek out from the bottom of his jacket when he reached into the refrigerator. “It’s nothing, calm down.”

“Nothing?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow and managing to- as perhaps only he could- look equal parts condemning and sarcastic. “I think it’s  _ something  _ if it had you running around with-”

“Jesus, Steve, you make me sound like I’m waving the thing around in the streets,” Bucky interrupted, wishing this tangent would resolve itself, and quickly, because he didn’t know  _ what  _ bullshit he was going to have to make up and successfully lie to Steve’s face in order to explain this one away. That is, why he had a firearm on him, where he’d gone with it, and why he didn’t have time between the place he had been and the cab to the place he was in now to stow it before  _ this exact scenario  _ happened. 

“Well, were you?” Tony asked, just enjoying the opportunity to stir the pot.

“Clearly not,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes. But Steve shot him a look that refused to let it go. “Seriously, I was just held up with Nat’s thing, which really shouldn’t have even been a thing if not for some misunderstood text messages and her subsequent failure to respond, and you said ASAP so here I am,” he said, holding his arms out as if he needed to announce his presence any more. “I would’ve put it away first, I know how finicky you get around-”

“Finicky?” Steve deadpanned, crossing his arms. “I do not get-”

“Don’t bullshit me Rogers, you get finicky,” Bucky declared. Tony nodded sagely though mutely in the background. “But you made it sound urgent,” Bucky continued. “So why the hell am I here?”

After a moment of glowering at him, and seriously thinking about it, Steve sighed, visibly deciding- with great personal strain- to let it go. He gestured to Tony, turning away from Bucky and pacing to the other side of the kitchen. “Just explain,” he said tiredly.

Bucky looked to Tony for answers. The man cleared his throat, smiling tightly. “Well, so, it’s really more an odd and entirely improbably coincidental thing than anything,” he began.

“Yeah, not off to a great start,” Bucky muttered, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. “What’s the damage?”

“It’s not-” Tony shook his head, starting over. “There’s not any, not really, not  _ yet _ , which is why it’s weird. So, you know that journalist? Karen Page, the one we sort of collectively flipped our shit over because of her exposé on us and the criminal white collar underworld?”

“Well I wouldn’t say ‘collectively’, speak for yourself, but yes,” Bucky said, “hard to forget.”

“So you recall I was keeping tabs on that across all relevant internet-y places.”

“Yes, thank for the layman’s speech,” Bucky said curtly, motioning for him to get on with it.

“So there’s not really a great way to put it, and I don’t have any explanation to soften it really. So I guess I’ll just say it,” Tony said, taking a breath. 

Bucky had to restrain himself from making a threat to Tony’s physical wellbeing. “Yeah, how about-”

“Page and from what I can tell this Jones PI women are in Austria.”

Bucky blinked at him, not comprehending the words that made no sense coming out of his mouth. A heavy, silent few seconds ticked by.

“Fucking what?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The rest of the team took the news similarly. 

Later that evening, all eight of them convened in Steve’s living room, chairs from the kitchen table dragged in alongside the small couch and armchair to accommodate. The meeting had already been on the books for a week. They had things to discuss. This was just… unexpected, and seemingly tangential. But if it didn’t seem that way before, it was quickly becoming a priority.

“Why?” Thor asked, the only reasonable question amid a room full of dumbfounded expressions and expletive-laced surprised remarks.

“If I knew that exactly, don’t you think I would’ve led with that?” Tony said. He looked annoyed, not at Thor for asking, but with himself and the circumstances for the answer not being readily apparent. “What clued me in was a post on Twitter by Page’s co-worker at the New York Bulletin that says, and I quote-” Tony lifted his phone to read off the screen- “‘That feeling when your coworker gets to go to Austria to research her new book and you’re stuck unjamming the copy machine’, unquote,” Tony said, putting his phone down.

“And that’s it?” Natasha asked, dubious.

“Well there’s also a reaction image of a cat stuck in an empty hamster cage, but that didn’t seem relevant,” Tony said, sarcastic. He sighed at the sharp look Natasha gave him. “After my various internet webs picked it up I started checking credit card records. The plane tickets were purchased by the Bulletin three days ago.”

Like all things important and contentious brought up in a room full of lone wolf type-A personalities, it very nearly devolved into finger pointing and taking sides on the matter. It helped that Steve and Tony had already talked the details through, Bucky monitoring and doing what he could to back Steve down from any extreme evasive action, the sort he’d spent the last two hours already pouring over in detail, pros and cons, and urging Steve against. If they did opt for the most cautious route, it would take the form of erasing what little trace of them in Europe existed and scattering to eight corners of the world in under ten hours, job called off, never to speak or it again, absolutely no contact for a minimum of six months, and no prolonged contact or contact regarding anything illegal for at least a year.

Bucky didn’t want to do that. He really didn’t. But he didn’t think they  _ had  _ to either.

He glanced across the room at Clint. He was sitting high on the back of the couch as he was often inclined to do, hands fidgeting in his lap. In front of him Natasha sat on the cushion like a normal human being, her shoulders bumping his knees, not that she seemed to mind at all. If anything sometimes it was intentional, a silent grounding point of contact. Bucky more and more saw parallels between Clint and Nat’s relationship and his own to Steve, and when he did, the more he understood it, even as cryptic as it usually was.

Though, in his recollection, he was never fake-married to Steve. Not even for tax purposes.

Oblivious to him looking, Clint was following along with the conversation, a frown twisting steadily at his mouth. “No,” he rebutted Sam. “I’m  _ not  _ saying I think this one journalist, who doesn’t even seem to be on any law enforcement agency’s radar-” he glanced at Tony for affirmation, given he’d spent the last few hours doing intensive research, and with his nod continued- “is cause to call it off immediately.”

Sam frowned. “So you’re-”

“I  _ am  _ saying that I am seriously concerned about where her information is coming from,” Clint continued, brow furrowed in mild frustration. “Because this is either the biggest coincidence in the history of unfortunate coincidences or this lady is narrowing in on  _ us  _ specifically, or some of us at least, and she’s got present and accurate information to do it.”

“Okay then,” Sam said, “so we pretty much agree.”

“So then…?” the end of Natasha’s sentence trailed off with a questioning look as she glanced from Steve to Tony to the others.

“We find out,” Steve stated, not like it was easy, but more like it was the only obvious choice.

Bucky didn’t know why, or exactly what, but he saw something hesitant flash across Natasha’s eyes, something she wasn’t saying. It was gone in less than a second, and even if he’d thought that someone else saw it too, he didn’t think it would’ve struck them as off in the same way. Or that it would give them the same cautious feeling that it gave him. 

“You agree with that, Nat?” Bucky asked easily, glancing up from where he was sitting, his elbows on his knees. And if there was just a hint of a challenge there, a warning the this wasn’t the time to be keeping secrets, it was intentional. 

Bucky had a creeping feeling that she knew more than she was sharing. And yes, he had reassured her before that he didn’t care. He didn’t care for shadow games at all lately. Of course, he only didn’t care until he did. Some things were more important.

She raised an eyebrow at him, her expression reading mild surprise, more calculated than genuine. “Of course,” she said, a sharp smile curling the corners of her mouth. “A little more information would never go amiss.”


	10. Stage 5 continued: due diliegence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. It's been a bit. If anyone's still reading... I've got no excuses.
> 
> Thanks to PolynomialPandemic for getting me back on track.

_ The very air in his lungs shook, vibrating with the dull thud, thud, thudding that had the earth vibrating under his feet. It was the blades of the helicopter, the exfil team, and it was the panic of his own heartbeat, synced until he couldn’t know which was the pounding in his ears, in his bones, between his teeth. Gritting his jaw tightly through the pain only made it worse.  _

_ He was running down the hallway. A hallway? That hallway. Already blasted to hell from aerial strikes, it hardly had the integrity to be called that. The hallway. But he remembered it, down to the dusty bits that shook free from the brick that had already been dry and cracked and crumbling in the merciless heat before the hellfire missiles got to it. He remembered? He was there. Is there. Motes of dust shaking free and filling the scorching air with more fiber and sand and smoke until his insides were burning. He felt it burning, right then, either from smoke or the need to breathe... he didn’t know.  _

_ He was there again. Still there. Remembered it but still there. Both hands gripping an assault rifle tight, last magazine heavy in his belt, ground shaking, heart racing, pain lancing up his side, the yelling behind him, closer. And Pierce, whispering in his ear, in the back of his head, that fucking voice. He remembered that too, heard it still, but not from that hallway. From a different time and place altogether. From before. _

_He shouldn’t_ be _there. He wasn't_ in _the army anymore, hadn’t been for years. He shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t have taken this job._ _What the fuck was he doing there in the first place? ‘What you’re supposed to’, Pierce, somewhere, not there, supplied the answer. Fuck Pierce._

_ And on the other side of that door he knew- he remembered. He was still there. Going through the motions, trapped on repeat. White hot sunlight waiting for him. And there would be the helicopter, escape, and all of sixty seconds of surging hope in his chest before the tell-tale white streak of the RPG through the air. Then it was white and blinding, screaming metal and screaming bodies in the sky. A tearing, crushing pain he’d never felt before- _

With a feeling like falling Bucky jolted upright in his seat. The car seat. Fake leather, little pine tree freshener. Not the polyester and canvas and metal of a UH-1 fully outfitted bird. Thousands of miles away from where he was in his head two seconds ago, or in person, two years ago. It was freezing out, the thin fog of ice crystals creeping back over the windows now that the car’s engine had long been off, but a cold sweat clung to him uncomfortably.

“You good?” Steve asked from the driver’s seat beside him, only mild concern breaking through the boredom in his tone. Steve only interrupted his dutiful watch of the front doors of the hotel for a brief glance across at him, and no more. That was a relief. It had been one of the quiet nightmares then, the sort that left him paralyzed, heart racing under the cold surface of his skin, rather than the sort that had him screaming or lashing out or any of the alternatives. That would’ve been complicated to brush off.

“Fuck off,” Bucky muttered, his voice rougher than expected. It was far more of a knee-jerk response- a rather practiced one- than one that answered the question, but whatever.

Bucky sat up, clearing his throat, still trying to fully reorient himself in the present place and moment even though the adrenaline now coursing through his veins shook off the shallow sleep easily. Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he scowled at Steve bitterly. Christ he was in a horrible mood. Everything was too close, uncomfortably clinging to him in the way that a shower couldn’t wash away. 

Fuck. His shoulder hurt. It was all he could do to keep from rubbing at it. Steve would definitely notice that.

“Eloquent,” was all Steve said dully, without even the decency to sound sarcastic.

Bucky just glared. “Fuck you,” he grumbled, throwing his shoulders back into the seat bitterly as if it might yield a little more room. It didn’t. It wouldn’t. It was just the irrational frustration and the want to strike out physically- which was therapist talk for ‘feeling like beating the ever loving shit out of something’. It just pissed him off more that he recognized that. 

“And here I was thinking I’d let you nap, might do you some good,” Steve mused, glancing down his nose reproachfully at him. “Apparently I was mistaken. You’re still a little shit.”

“Wow,” Bucky said, deadpan, clearing his throat. “I can see you’re really suffering there. Don’t worry, I’m sure one day the world will recognize your martyrdom, ya fuckin’ saint.” He clenched his hands tight around the edges of his seat, fingers digging into the materials for purchase, forcing his left to cooperate.

If Steve noticed that, for one reason or another, he didn’t comment. Instead he continued drumming his fingers on the edge of the wheel. “Maybe so. Maybe one day, you’ll get some halfway decent sleep before the stakeout instead of during it.” 

Bucky tried and failed to stretch out his legs, gritting his teeth and glaring daggers at the offending dashboard. Too much useless adrenaline, nowhere to put it. “First of all, you dick,” Bucky swore, “this? Dragging me around this goddamn city following this woman around since six in the goddamn morning? Isn’t a stakeout. It’s stalking, is what it is.”

Steve winced, voicing a note of disagreement. “Well I don’t know about that. Maybe. But if so, only because she stalked us first.”

Bucky sighed, if only to follow it up with a deep breath, righting himself. “Maybe,” he relented. “Still, it’s creepy.”

“This woman writing a book about us is creepy.”

“You’re hardly in it,” Bucky said, shifting his glare to Steve.

“‘Hardly’ still isn’t great, in my opinion,” he said, nonplussed.

“Just admit you’re upset that you’re a footnote.”

“I’m upset I’m in it at all,” he countered, “but-” Steve half-shrugged, giving in a little- “I’ll admit if I  _ do  _ have to be in it, well I think I deserve more than a passing mention.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky said, the end of the thought dropping off. “I’d trade with you if I could.”

Steve hummed in acknowledgement, both of the sentiment and the weight of the misfortune behind it for all of them. No one wanted to admit it, but they’d each spent hours on their own digging up articles and whatever else they could get their hands on about Page and this ‘exposé’ she was working on.

They lapsed into silence for a few long moments again before either of them spoke.

Bucky entertained himself by watching the foot traffic move slowly along both sides of the avenue. The trickle of civilians, heavy coats concealing most features and the need to pull in tight against the cold muting most observable body language, trudged through the biting cold and the rapidly greying slush from last night’s thin snowfall- the first of the season. Completely unaware of their perch in the upper level of the parking garage across the four lanes of stalled traffic from the hotel where their current persons of interest were staying. 

Except of the two of them, the journalist Karen Page and her PI partner-of-sorts (big question mark there, the nature of it still to be determined) Jessica Jones, Page was the only one currently inside. The two had split off early that morning, meaning they, or Steve really, had to divert attention and resources- i.e. Clint and Natasha in this case- elsewhere. And that was unfortunate, because they already hadn’t built in time for stalking to their rapidly accelerating schedule, and Clint and Natasha currently needed to be working on their own projects. Following Jones around all day and probably well into the night was not one of those projects.

He wasn’t sure exactly what the other two were getting up to, and figured he and Steve wouldn’t know until they debriefed at the end of the allotted twenty-four hours they’d committed this information-gathering stint, but he had to imagine it was better than this. Surely he and Steve had gotten the boring one. 

But hell, sparing twenty-four hours was probably worth it. At least Thor, Sam, Bruce, and Tony could continue making preparations. That business with the catering company should be well on its way to finalized, which meant they ought to be focusing on documentation and making introductions next, a much longer process than it sounded… but then Steve still had a lot of work to do on those replicas… Shit. The details only got more complicated and thinking about it just solidified Bucky’s already voiced opinion that they did not have time for this. 

“And, the second thing?” Steve asked seemingly out of the blue, but more so like he was waiting for Bucky to bring it up than like he’d forgotten. 

Stumbling out of his head and back to the present, Bucky glanced up. “Huh?”

“There were two things you were bitching about,” Steve so helpfully reminded him. “You said ‘first of all’ about the stalking-not-stakeout thing, but you never said what I assume was going to be a ‘second of all’ part.”

Bucky sighed, staring out the icy window at some point in space without really seeing, the adrenaline and the urgency of the fight-or-flight-mostly-fight fading away and being replaced by the weight of exhaustion seeping back into him. He didn’t look back at Steve. “I dunno. Thought’s gone now.”

“Liar,” Steve sighed, disappointed. “What were you going to say before you changed your mind?”

“Nothing,” Bucky said. “Now quit staring at me like that. You’ve got a very suspicious door to keep an eye on.”

“At you like what?”

“Like I kicked your puppy.”

“You know,” Steve mused, definitely raising an eyebrow based on that tone and that tone alone, “it’s kind of weird, how you do that.” Bucky ignored him rather than take the bait, so Steve continued. “Like you’ve got eyes on the back of your head or something. Because you’re not looking at me, I’m not even in your periphery, you’re glaring out that window like it personally offended you, and I-”

“Hey Steve?” Bucky interrupted.

“Yeah?”

“Your reflection’s in the window.”

That sat in the air for a moment with a pause, accompanied by the briefest feeling of satisfaction at Steve’s discomfort. 

“Ah, well,” Steve sighed, and this time Bucky did look across at him to see the uncomfortable wince, like he’d tasted something sour. “Fine. You might not have a sixth sense. But I do. For when you’re dodging a conversation,” Steve had the audacity to say in an almost sing-song way, still in far too much of a generally pleasant mood for Bucky’s liking.

Bucky let his head thump against the back of the seat, wishing it hurt more than it did. “I say it every time, but I seriously mean it this time when I say I will never let you drag me into one of your stakeouts ever again. Actually, screw that. I’ll never let you trap me in a confined space with you ever again. Not a car-”

“Buck-”

“- not an elevator-”

“Bucky, come on.”

“I might consider allowing you in the same room as me, but only if there’s other people-”

“Congratulations, you’re really funny and an expert at seamlessly changing topics,” Steve cut in half-heartedly. “Nat would be proud. But I think what you were  _ going  _ to explain was, uh, why you’re dozing off during the stakeout. It’s very unprofessional. Doesn’t seem like you.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, considering ending this unwelcome thread with a definitive ‘fuck off, Rogers’ and having that be that. And maybe he would have, had he thought for even one wild moment that would work. But this was Steve. 

“Because I slept fuck-all last night, and not for lack of trying. Sorry, thought that was fuckin’ obvious,” he said sharply, coming across too defensive and he knew it. 

“Uh-huh,” Steve agreed, confirming that was already obvious, but that clearly wasn’t what he was digging for. “You wanna talk more about that?” He wasn’t unkind in how he asked it. Wasn’t  _ not  _ being genuine. And the issue wasn’t that Steve was too nosy or patronizing or treating him with kid gloves. The problem was he was too keen on helping and fixing when there was nothing he could do. Nothing Bucky wanted him to do. There was a line, and Steve, like Steve, was toeing it.

Bucky closed his eyes, counted to ten, and tried not to tear Steve’s head off when he proceeded. “If I wanted to talk to you Steve,” he said slowly, cooly, “if I thought that would help anything, I would.” He turned to face the other man, meeting his almost imploring look directly, and heard the steel in his own voice as he continued. “So until that happens- and I say this knowing you’re only trying to help- how ‘bout you keep the fuck outta my head.”

It took a moment, but there was a nod. A contrite smile, uncomfortable but understanding. Steve sighed, rubbing over the three day’s worth of stubble at his jaw. “You know I’m seriously thinking about implementing a swear jar. Between you, Clint and Tony, after a couple days I wouldn’t even need to be here.”

It took every ounce of patience… but even that wasn’t enough. “Okay. I’m done now,” Bucky sighed, already reaching for the door handle and fully committing himself to the idea of walking home or catching a cab or doing whatever he needed to do to put and keep some serious distance between himself and Steve, even if it was an unlikely endeavour, seeing as he had only ever succeeded in doing that twice in his life. (One of those times required joining the fucking army, the other wasn’t really feasible since their freshman year of high school when it was still easy to lock pre-growth spurt Steve in the one closet in the Barnes family household with the lock on the outside.)

“Stop being dramat-” Steve started, but the car door slamming behind Bucky as he ducked out of the car cut him off. 

He got all of three steps away before Bucky heard the door opening behind him. “Buck, come on. Get back here,” he called after him, not an ounce of remorse or hint of an apology in his tone. 

Bucky gave him the bird, not even turning back. 

“Fine,” he said, voice carrying across the deserted roof level of the parking garage. “Guess you don’t want to clone her phone then.”

That gave him pause. Finally, the opportunity to  _ do  _ something, something productive, that might yield answers. Something he’d been trying to get Steve to do since 7 in the morning. “Fuck you, Stevie,” he swore, turning in place but staying put, an unforgiving scowl fixed in place.

The bastard was sporting a shit eating grin if Bucky’d ever seen one, head cocked to the side just innocently so, looking at him from overtop the roof of the car where he stood half out of the driver’s side door. He waggled the burner cell that would do the job tantalizingly with the hand not holding the car door open, like it alone might change his mind about ditching their stalking marathon.

It very well might.

Bucky shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold wind, pissed as hell that Steve was impervious to the well-practiced, wilting glare he was sending his way. He hated that. Bucky was silent for a long moment, thinking.

“Fine,” he said bluntly. “Give it here.”

“No, I think I’ll do it. You can help though,” Steve offered, expression going more serious, still far too pleased with himself though. The scary thing was, Bucky had no idea if he was still just pressing his buttons, or if he meant it. 

“Steve you know you’re shit at this,” he reminded him, but Steve was already pulling his coat on over his hoodie and locking the car behind him. “Steve.” He was walking away. “ _ Steven _ .”

“Come on,” he called over his shoulder, motioning for Bucky to follow. “Let’s go. This is exciting, you an me doing this again. Except this time you can distract-”

“Steven Grant Rogers, you try anything with that-” 

“-and I’ll clone the phone. I’m  _ sure  _ this will go better than last time,” he said, continuing toward the stairwell.

“Jesus fucking Christ, I swear to f-” Bucky stopped himself with a frustrated growl, finding it wasn’t helping. He darted after Steve, who had already picked up the pace, before he could do anything stupid. Or reckless. Or both. 

Stupid and reckless. What the hell was up with that? Had he just started collecting these people now? One more to worry about. 

Great.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

_ “So how’d it go, the night before last?”  _ Clint nearly choked on the sip of scalding coffee, coughing and wincing at the burn. He switched hands with the styrofoam cup and adjusted the earpiece Natasha ambushed him through, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. But he seemed to be in the clear.

“Not everything you could comment on needs your commentary,” he replied curtly, hiding the appearance he was talking to himself by pulling up his scarf against the wind. 

He watched her wander between storefronts and boutiques circling the outside of the pavillion shopping center, below the raised terrace of the second level restaurants and snow covered patio seating where Clint leaned against the railing casually. It was almost deserted up at his perch, given no one in their right mind would be sitting outside in this weather. Mingling with the crowds of Christmas shopping families and tourists, shopping bags in hand, her features obscured by a thick coat and hat and waves of hair half in front of her face, she appeared to be a window shopping local for all intents and purposes. 

_ “So it went well then. Interesting,” _ she chimed, amused. She made her way over to the street cart selling sub-par coffee and hot chocolate, waiting in line as an excuse to stop moving and keep an eye on their target.

“She still in the bakery?” Clint asked, glancing back across the pavilion at the tiny brick-faced corner bakery, windows a warm glow in the bleak cold outside. Seated inside one of those windows was a woman who seemed to have more of an aesthetic thing for black leather than Bucky did. Jones. She pulled it off alright, but maybe Clint was biased.

_ “You can see her as well as I,” _ Natasha responded by way of saying ‘you can’t change the conversation that easily’ as she lifted her phone to her ear in order to talk without drawing odd looks.  _ “Just tell me if you’re alright?” _

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, delicately balancing his steaming cup on the railing in order tug his cap down further over his ears before crossing his arms and burying his freezing hands in his coat. “Can we focus on the job now?”

She laughed at that, but mercifully fell silent. They both resumed their watch.

As soon as Jones had sat down and donned a navy blue baseball cap, doing nothing but ordering a coffee and a scone and waiting, it was clear she was spotlighting, identifying herself to someone either to meet or for an exchange they didn’t know. And Jones seemed more agitated all the while she waited as over a half hour had gone by, making Clint and Natasha think maybe her contact wasn’t going to show. Clint only really cared about that because it meant he was going to have to stand out there in the cold for who knows how long before Jones threw in the towel and left. 

“Clueless tourist at your three o’clock,” Clint noted, watching the mid-forty looking guy who was as blatantly American as his gym shoes glance at his phone every few steps forward like he wasn’t quite sure where he was going.  

_ “We’re not here to lift wallets and watches from tourists,”  _ Natasha admonished quietly, stepping away from the line now with her own styrofoam cup in gloved hand now. 

“That would be more fun though. I haven’t spent a day doing that in fucking ages.” Clint let his eyes wander back over the crowd cutting paths through the snow covered courtyard, looking for he didn’t quite know what.

_ “Not since you went international?” _ she laughed.

“Something like that. I tried getting back into it, you know, during retirement and all, but it just didn’t feel the same? Nothings a challenge anymore so it just feel l-” he stopped himself, eyes narrowing, tracking a man’s figure, darkly dressed and with plenty of layers, as he cut a strangely intent path through uncleared snow toward Jones’s spot. “Hey there’s a g- snag drop,” Clint interrupted himself, watching the same guy hurry past the bench outside the bakery window and drop a small shopping bag without even slowing. 

_ “I saw it. Not the smoothest.” _

“I don’t think she’s noticed yet. You want to stall her and I’ll go take a peek?”

_ “Make it quick.” _

Clint darted for the stairs, keeping his head ducked low in the folds of his scarf, the wind chill giving him an excuse to move fast without looking too out of place. Darting between clusters of shoppers, he made it as far as two storefronts down when Jones seemed to look up from her phone and glance back out the window, impossible for her to not see the parcel waiting on the bench now. That was when Natasha threw open the doors, disappearing inside. 

He couldn’t watch whatever scene was about to be made there though. He matched pace with two young couples passing by the bench, taking one last glance up to see the window empty and neither Natasha nor Jones in sight before stopping to prop his boot on the bench, hunching over as if to retie the laces and carefully poking through the paper bag instead. 

It was blue and had some sort of store logo across the front, the sort you might buy an early holiday gift in, and was stuffed with tissue paper and, gingerly poking that aside … more tissue paper. “There’s nothing in here, Nat, just-” he started saying, just as a commotion over Natasha’s earpiece told him she wasn’t in a place to reply. A shrill cry, colorful German swearing, and muffled bickering after that. 

He pushed past that to the bottom of the bag just to make sure, worrying at the inside of his cheek and casually glancing up at passing faces when he found a card at the bottom. A generic Christmas-y Hallmark card, nothing special. When he cracked it open though, getting a quick look, there was a handwritten list running down both sides. 

Names. Of people. Not that he recognized any of them at a glance. His frown hidden in the soft fabric of his scarf, he got through maybe ten of them before Natasha’s urgent hiss of  _ “incoming” _ over the comms had him shoving it back to the bottom, withdrawing his hand and darting away just in time to see this Jones woman come rushing around the corner looking pretty put off- by that he meant pissed- right in his direction. 

When her eyes moved over and past him without a second look though, he exhaled, pulling his phone out once she was past him, tugging a glove off with his teeth, and immediately typing as many names as he could into the notes of his phone before he forgot them. And that was a grand total of five. Shit.

Shoving that in his pocket, he continued walking without glancing back until he was almost all the way across the pavillion. When he did, he caught Jones walking away, bench now empty, and Natasha following after him, her scarlet peacoat stained down the entire front with hot coffee and a glare fixed in place. Clint stalled, waiting for her to catch up.

“I could’ve done with more than five seconds,” Clint complained, pulling the uncomfortable earpiece out with a grimace.

“And I could’ve done with an apology,” she snapped, the corners of her mouth drawn tight with distaste. “But that woman has no time for social propriety, so neither of us got what we wanted.” She flicked her hair back, clearly annoyed that her tactic proved unsuccessful, and stalked past him in the direction of the parking lot where they could hopefully catch up before they lost her entirely.

“Whatever. Not the end of the world,” Clint sighed, picking up the pace to keep up.

“What do you mean there was nothing in it?” she asked, glancing sideways at him as they moved aside for a rowdy group of children rushing past with handfuls of snow. 

“Nothing but a Christmas card tucked in the bottom, with a list of names inside. At least fifty or sixty. I glanced through about a dozen before I had to drop it.”

Natasha looked curious more than anything now, her frustration passing. “Which were?”

He passed her his phone with the list of the five that stuck. She hummed with interest reading them, handing it back with a worried twist to her mouth. “Any ideas who they are?”

“Nope,” Clint said, tucking it away in a pocket. “Not done yet though.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was Bucky’s place that served as their impromptu rally point this time.

He and Steve had called it quits by noon of day two when Karen Page made it fairly clear she wasn’t up to anything terribly interesting beyond fielding phone calls in the hotel from colleagues back in the States and a rather confused sounding art gallery owner there in the city. It may have been the most excruciatingly boring twenty-four hours of his and maybe even Steve’s life too, but at least they got to sleep, because Page kept normal hours.

Clint and Natasha had no such luck as they tracked Jones through the underbelly of the city from ill-concealed drop points to a tattoo parlor to a bar and even to the Austrian equivalent of a DMV well into the early hours of the morning. They caught a couple hours rest switching off shifts in the parked car and went straight back to surveillance once Jones was up again by seven. They didn’t call it quits until around one that afternoon, heading directly back to make their report, and neither of them in entirely the best mood about it.

Regardless, the only casualties had been time and an expensive dry cleaning bill, so it could have gone worse.

“Ten bucks says they’re either local fences or forgers,” Clint mumbled over his mug of coffee, sitting cross legged on the couch, throw blanket over his lap, elbows propped on his knees. His eyes had drifted closed at least fifteen minutes ago and he didn’t seem inclined to open them again any time soon.

“The names?” Steve asked, confused.

“Hm? Nah.” Clint shook his head slightly. “The places she was bouncin’ round between.”

“It  _ was  _ fairly obvious that they were fronts,” Natasha agreed, her legs crossed at the ankles and tossed over the side of the armchair she had commandeered. “Fronts for what though, I’d agree with Clint.” She sipped from her mug, staring off into space as she thought about it.

“Those would be the places to go if you want information on the criminal element in town. Usually,” Steve amended, because obviously anyone worth their salt that was new in town would steer clear of those, and for reasons just like this. They were too catch-all. The first places unwelcome company like cops or competitors, or nosy journalists apparently, would go looking.

There was a general murmur of agreement, then they lapsed back into silence, mulling over everything that had come to light. It took Tony about ten minutes to get back with results on the names from the list at the drop spot. Three of them didn’t get any hits, but one popped up in a police report as the name appearing on a full set of forged documents- passport, license, national identity card, bank account, car registration, the whole works- seized in a drug bust, and the other was a name appearing on a plane ticket and a bank account in the Ivory Coast. 

These names then, presumably, were not real people. That meant the people who had assumed these identities, presumably, were not the most legally upstanding. And all of that meant, with a little extrapolation, that Page and Jones were looking for someone or multiple someones among them, and that they were going through the local talent to get to them. That was a little concerning, certainly, and left just as many questions as it answered.

Not to say it wasn’t a pretty smart tactic. It would have been a major pain in the ass if they’d already gone through with the part of the plan which involved acquiring some similar documents, and if they didn’t have Fury’s people, who weren’t so local or so susceptible to giving up their clients, set up to supply them when the time came. 

Natasha was the first to leave. “I don’t think we’re getting any further with this here,” she sighed, getting up from the armchair with an uncomfortable wince as she straightened her back. “No one’s allowed to contact me for the next six hours unless it’s an emergency.”

“Understood,” Steve said, getting up and grabbing his own jacket. “I’m gonna head out too, see how far Thor got with prepping our exit strategy.”

“You want help with anything?” Bucky offered, but Steve waved him off.

“No, just be ready for tonight. We pick back up with the schedule as planned,” he said, and then he was ushering Natasha out the door.

Clint startled at the sound of the door closing a little heavily, turning and blinking at where Steve and Natasha had just stood a moment ago.

Bucky chuckled at that, getting up from his seat across the room and walking over to the couch. He gently lifted the still half full mug from Clint’s hands before he seemed to realize what was happening.

“Aw, no,” he complained, reaching out half hearted for it but not going any further than the forlorn looks he sent in its direction as Bucky placed it out of reach on the nearby kitchen table. 

“The only thing you’re gonna do with that is spill it,” Bucky explained apologetically, returning to sit next to Clint on the couch. “Sorry sweetheart, I think you’re beyond the help of caffeine at this point.”

Clint wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Traitor,” he muttered under his breath, but leaned into Bucky’s shoulder regardless. 

Grinning, Bucky pressed a kiss to the top of his head, carding fingers lightly through his hair. “Oof, that hurts,” he whispered just above Clint’s ear. “Take it back.”

“Give it back then,” Clint said, shifting against him as he scooted closer. “‘N maybe I will.”

“Ultimatems, hm? I see how it i-” Bucky inhaled sharply, the air hissed through his teeth as he jerked back involuntarily when Clint nudged just the wrong place between Bucky’s collar and shoulder. The same place where the goddamn phantom ache had resurged ever since that nightmare came back the night before, but this time he was hit with a split second of the full force of it, searing through his torso and upper arm until it faded away again just as fast.

Fuck. As slight and as fast as it was over and done, there was no hiding that.

Clint sat upright immediately, backing up and twisting around on the couch to look Bucky up and down for the source of the harm with equal parts concern and confusion. 

But Bucky, still frozen in place, found himself not knowing how to respond to that, or what to do, or how to say it was really fine, it was already gone again, no need for concern, and please no it really wasn’t his fault. “Um-” He took a slow, methodical breath, grinding the heel of his hand into the joint of his shoulder until he was certain what he was feeling was real. 

Right. Let’s not panic now. Words. Find the right ones, he told himself.

When he glanced up, Clint was far more awake than before, assessing the situation. Except that was probably the wrong word. Bucky would have been assessing, were their places reversed. Collecting data, considering the tactical approach. Clint was waiting patiently, chewing the inside of his lip, guilt hovering under the surface of the neutral expression he was wearing.

“Are you alr-” 

Bucky held up a hand in a halfway aborted stop gesture, wincing uncomfortably at the entire situation he’d put himself in. “Not your fault,” where the first words he could force out, taking a breath and finding the next ones easier. “It’s just- it’s an old, uh, injury. And it’s fine, really. It’s just been acting up. Lately.” Another breath. “Sorry.”

Clint nodded, slowly, mercifully edging closer again across the couch. Bucky let out the air he didn’t realize he’d been holding for a moment there. “Okay,” he said, eyes flickering between Bucky’s face and where he was still pressing at his shoulder through his t-shirt. “You okay?”

Bucky took a moment to fully consider the question. “Yeah,” he concluded, nodding. “Yeah I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting it to, well, do that,” he admitted quietly. He forced himself to bring his hand away from it. “It’s usually not a problem.” 

“Okay,” Clint said, wheels turning. “Okay. Can I ask-” he hesitated, almost motioning but stopping himself. “Where? So I don’t-”

A pained sound escaped the back of Bucky’s throat. “Hey, really, not your fault,” he reassured gently. “And I’m fine. And yeah, it’s, it’s-” he slowly lifted his hand back up to his left shoulder, tapping a finger lightly against the center of the matted scar tissue concealed under his shirt there. “Seriously though, it’s rarely ever a thing. It’s just…” he shrugged, uncomfortable and not certain what he was trying to get at.

Now he remembered that he had boundaries for a reason. Christ, he hadn’t foreseen getting into this. Nor did he really want to, but there he was, so might as well try and deal with it.

Humming in acknowledgment, Clint got up and moved around the couch to Bucky’s right side before sitting. He moved slowly, watched Bucky carefully for any sign he should stop as Clint drew in close again, fingers of one hand finding and intertwining with his as he tugged his hand over without finding any resistance, pressing a light kiss to the back of Bucky’s hand.

“‘M sorry,” he murmured, eyes flickering back up to meet Bucky’s.

“Darlin’,” he sighed, “it really isn’t your-”

“‘M sorry it hurts sometimes,” he said simply. “An’ I’m sorry it happened just now,” he continued, pressing another kiss against his knuckles. “And mostly ‘m sorry you got hurt in the first place. That bit probably sucks the worst,” Clint raised an eyebrow as if to say it wasn’t a rhetorical question. 

“Yeah, guess so,” Bucky said, trying not to sound too wobbly because damn if the way Clint was looking at him didn’t just hit him like a sledgehammer right in the middle of his chest. “C’mere.”

His free hand sliding down to Clint’s hip, he tugged gently, guiding him over to straddle his lap. The other man was a comfortable weight on top of him. He let go of Bucky’s hand to steady himself, but Bucky hummed disapprovingly at how cautious he was being about where and how, like he was suddenly afraid to get too near anywhere Bucky didn’t explicitly guide him first.

“Hey, not a live wire over here,” Bucky chastised softly, taking Clint’s right hand in his own and guiding it over top of the old injury, letting it settle there. Ever so cautiously, tracking Bucky’s expression for any sign he should stop, Clint lightly dragged his fingertips over the soft cotton of his shirt, no doubt feeling the faintly knotted web of scars, surgical and otherwise, spreading out from that point.

Clint made a displeased sound, mouth a tight line and brow furrowed in concentration as he tracked them lightly with his fingertips, ghosting across over-sensitive skin even with the layer of fabric between them.

Bucky’s mouth twitched with dark humor dancing across his mind. “Not very pretty, huh?”

Clint looked distressed. “I don’t- that’s not-” His jaw went tight, his exploring hand pulling back entirely. There was a flash of anger there that surprised him. “What- what did that? Who-” he shook his head, not knowing the questions to ask for the answers he wanted.

“Hey,” he hushed gently, “I was only kidding, I know. It was-” he stopped himself. “I was going to say it was an accident. That’s usually the go-to line. But, uh, no, it wasn’t.” He felt calmer saying it than he’d perhaps ever felt when even thinking about it before, the breath still coming evenly, the words quietly but surely. He didn’t want to overanalyze that now, though. 

“I was working,” he continued, Clint not hurrying him. “It was a job I never should have taken, but I was backed into a corner,” he explained, “and working for the wrong people. Almost got out pretty clean too. I was in the exfil helicopter-”

“Oh,” Clint breathed, his expression faltering, realization dawning. He saw where this was going.

“Yeah. And there’s really very little that a bird can do about an anti-tank RPG incoming when it’s only about thirty feet off the ground.”

Clint didn’t respond right away to that, letting it sink in. “Fuck, Barnes. That- fuck. I’m, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I don’t even, know what- what to- that-” Clint shuddered visibly, pain and sorrow and a whole lot else ricoquetting across his face.

He tried to shrug it off, only getting as far as a weak half smile that felt too tight at the corner of his mouth. Was he really expected to know what the fuck to say either?

Clint steeled his expression. “But hey, you’re still here, you know? And that’s the most important thing.” He looked at him expectantly, to agree.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Bucky said, laughing dryly. 

Clint just shook his head, his fingers twisting into the material of Bucky’s shirt on both sides down by the hem, well away from anything potentially sensitive. Torn between admonishment and amazement, Clint’s shoulders slumped. “What the fuck, man. What the fuck.”

Grinning wryly, Bucky lifted a hand to the back of Clint’s neck, tugging him forward into a light kiss, just barely nipping at his bottom lip as he pulled away a moment later. “Don’t start sounding like Steve on me. You are not allowed to start sounding like Steve.”

Clint exhaled heavily, fingers dragging lightly along Bucky’s jaw. “I don’t think I’m qualified to do that,” he sighed. “Plus it doesn’t sound like any fun at all.”

“It’s not, I guarantee it.” Clint smiled faintly at that, but his eyes dropped away again and he was worrying at his lip, a dead giveaway that there was still something he wasn’t so keen on saying. “Hey, what is it?”

“Hm? Nothin’,” Clint said, shrugging. 

“Not nothing. C’mon, spill,” Bucky pushed.

Clint hesitated, glancing toward where the scars he’d felt a moment ago were hidden. Slowly, carefully, he brought his hand back up to where he’d left off, the pad of his thumb gently swiping over the joint of his shoulder. 

Bucky hummed in understanding, not at all surprised. “You want to see.”

Clint took a deep breath, leaning back slightly like he was second guessing himself before shifting forward again, his mouth a taut line. “Not if it makes you uncomfortable.” The way he said, tone firm as he met Bucky’s gaze again, suggested there would be no negotiating that point.

“You could’ve just asked,” he said, as the fingers of Clint’s other hand danced around the hem of his shirt.

“What can I say, I’m a visual learner,” Clint deadpanned, eyes flicking back up from Bucky’s waistline to his eyes, the ghost of a self-satisfied grin hovering at the corner of his mouth.

There was a lot to unpack in that look.

“There have got to be easier ways,” Bucky laughed, pulling Clint down again without warning to press a hard kiss against his mouth, the other man making a not-displeased note of surprise before being released once more. Then Bucky was pulling up the bottom hem of his shirt as Clint reeled back slightly, arms crossing over head as he tugged it up and off and tossed it aside before he overthought it.

He shivered faintly at the cool feeling of the air against exposed skin, but Clint’s hands were warm as they travelled up his sides, skimming over planes of muscle and hints of faded and not so faded scars until they came to rest more securely on either shoulder. He tracked Clint’s eyes as, his head tilted to the side, they stopped in their path on the noticeably redder web of scar tissue melding across his shoulder and pectoral. Thin white surgical scars made more predictable paths across his shoulder and upper arm through mottled burns and the reminders of torn flesh, hinting at the reconstructed, reinforced, and partly replaced bone and cartilage underneath. 

Clint spared a moment, delicately tracing one of the lines. “Hm, beautiful,” Clint murmured to himself barely audibly as he ducked down to press a feather light kiss to the top of Bucky’s left shoulder, breath tickling across his skin. 

“You’re a damn idiot, Barton,” Bucky said, trying to scold him, but his voice came out thicker than intended and there wasn’t much force behind the words as his brain helpfully supplied the reminder that probably no one ever, certainly not Bucky himself, had ever thought that about the mess that was his left shoulder. He swallowed hard against that.

Clint chuckled against him, making him twitch at the brush of warm breath over his collar. “I never claimed to not be,” he said, and Bucky felt him grinning against the side of his neck as quick fingers trailed down his chest to splay out gently against his sides.

“It occurs to me, you wouldn’t have gotten my shirt off under false pretenses, would you Clint?” he asked, the sarcasm light and inconsequential as he focused instead on keeping his breath from catching in his chest as he felt more than was able to see, because Clint was awful close now, his hands continuing on their burning path against him.

Rather than get a response, all he got was a breathy chuckle before Bucky jumped slightly in surprise as teeth nipped sharply at smooth skin. “Fuck,” he swore, fingers digging into Clint’s sides, eliciting an appreciative sound from the other man. “Bastard,” he grumbled. 

Clint just grinned devilishly against his shoulder, rocking his hips forward playfully under pretense of shifting closer, his still clothed chest now flush against bare skin. Bucky’s breath caught in his chest sharply, and he didn’t spare a moment before retaliating, his fingers dropping lower and digging into Clint’s hips, dragging him closer without warning and with a merciless tilt of his own hips.

This time Clint inhaled sharply at the unexpected friction, choking on a swallowed sound. “That wasn’t very polite,” Bucky growled in his ear, and Clint fucking  _ shuddered _ , a soft whine escaping his throat. 

“Never really claimed to be that either,” Clint said, an awful lot less cocky this time. He stilled against him, face still ducked into the crook of Bucky’s neck, but not doing anything escalating. 

Bucky smirked, enjoying the jump of Clint’s pulse beneath his lips at the point just below his jaw. “What’s the matter now, hm?”

Clint exhaled heavily, an arm curling around Bucky’s neck that was probably doing nothing more than giving him an excuse to not pull away, to not have to make eye contact. “Just don’t want to get ahead of ourselves is all.”

Right. Shit. There had been a thought there once upon a time, though he wasn’t sure if it had been his or Clint’s, about going slow, or something like that. 

He straightened slowly, leaning back into the couch a bit just to put another inch between them, his hands dropping loosely to Clint’s waist. “Whatever you want,” Bucky mumbled softly, pressing a light kiss against his temple.

Clint swallowed hard. “Not quite worried about what  _ I _ want right now,” he said, a gravelly tone to his voice. He stayed carefully frozen, taking measured breaths. “That wasn’t entirely the point.”

Bucky frowned, catching up to what was going on. He huffed a breath out quietly, nudging gently at Clint’s jawline. “Christ you’re adorable. You know I’m alright though, right?”

Clint didn’t respond to that right away. “You sure?”

“Very.” Bucky accentuated the point, and his interest, by teasing at the edges of Clint’s sweatshirt, fingers darting under both it and the shirt beneath to drag lightly over soft skin.

“M’kay,” Clint gasped silently as Bucky shifted beneath him, hands tightening on his shoulders. “Believe you.” Still he didn’t move though.

Bucky frowned, tugging Clint just far enough away to meet his gaze. His eyes were wide, breath coming a little more ragged than usual, but there was something hesitant still swimming right under the surface. “I’m sensing a ‘but’ being left unsaid there.”

Clint took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he watched Bucky from beneath hooded lids, wetting his lower lip purposefully before speaking. “No, not that. Just wondering how the tables got turned on me and my false pretenses is all,” he laughed, a grin playing across his mouth. 

Bucky snorted at that, dragging Clint forward and into a deeper kiss, not taking much more convincing to part his lips beneath Bucky’s urging, tongue dipping inside. That was just a hint though before Bucky pulled away again. “You  _ are  _ the only one fully clothed here,” Bucky muttered against the column of his throat as he broke away for breath. “If an even playing field is what you’re worried about,” he said, his grin all teeth.

“Ah,” Clint said, nodding faintly, eyes fluttering closed. “I see. Seems only fair.”

Bucky took little more encouraging to shuck Clint’s hoodie and t-shirt off in one go, pulling it up from the bottom and dragging his eyes up over tan expanses of skin and defined muscle as he went. His eyes caught on the rough-edged scar just below the left side of his rib cage, a few inches across. He hesitated before allowing his thumb to drag over it softly as his hands slid up Clint’s sides.

Clint swiped his tongue over his teeth, chest rising and falling shallowly as he glanced down, raising an eyebrow. “Speaking of which… I forgot, you’d already seen mine,” he said, grinning almost manically, laughter rising up in his chest.

Bucky had seen it before, remembering that night on the rooftop in New York not too long after meeting the man. Clint had taken far too much pride in them then, it and the others that laced his body, still probably too much now, and for no other reason than surviving them. Because he was still kicking, still proving the universe wrong or something like that. Fuck. It mad a lot more sense now. How was this person real and alive and buzzing beneath his fingertips? 

“Speaking of which,” Bucky repeated back, glancing up to meet Clint’s eyes once more, “you know we’re still gonna have to talk about this one, and the fact that you’re own damn brother caused it.”

Clint laughed, wild and breathless. “There’s not a whole lot to tell, honestly. I’d tell ya’ right now if you asked, but it’s a hell of a mood killer,” he panted, almost writhing underneath Bucky’s hands now.

Bucky considered that, gnawing at the inside of his lip as his eyes flicked over Clint’s torso. “I’m not entirely opposed to getting to it later, if that’s alright with you?” 

“I can’t think of a single damn reason why it wouldn’t be,” he managed to get out as he arched against the drag of Bucky’s hands down his back.

Not to say there weren’t any, but Bucky sure as hell couldn’t conjure any to mind at the moment.


End file.
